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DOT: 

THE    STORY    OF    A    CITY    WAIF. 


ANNIE    LUCAS, 


AUTHOR  OF 

"Lionit,"  "Nobody's  Darling,"  "  The  City  attd  tht  CastU,"  He 


5Hith  %'oid\it  dfttll-j^age  Ulttstrationa  ig  '^-  P2n»- 


BOSTON: 

JAMES    H.  EARLE,  PUBLISHER, 
178  Washington  Street. 

1888. 


CONTENTS. 


CHAP.  PAGB 

I.  "no  work"     ..••••       9 

II.   A  DESPERATE   PURPOSE       .  •  •  •      ^7 

III.   WORSTED   IN   THE   BATTLE  •  .  .25 

IV.   AN   UNEXPECTED   CHAMPION        .  .  .29 

V.    BESS   BRANKER'S   TEA-PARTY        .  •  .39 

VI.   CONFIDENCES 49 

VII.    BESS    BRANKER   GIVES   AN   OPINION     .  .      59 

VIII.   THE   prodigal's   RETURN  .  .  .65 

IX.    NO   NAME 73 

X.    BESS   AND    DOT 77 

XI.   WHAT   ANOTHER   DECEMBER    BROUGHT  .      85 

XII.    "MOTHER   NO   MOTHER"    ,  .  .  .95 

XIII.  dot's    FANCIES I05 

XIV.  SUMMERS  «  •  •  .  .  •113 
XV.   dot's   first   PRAYER           •           •           •  .    123 


Contents, 


CHAP.  PAGB 

XVI.    LITTLE   JOEY    ENTERS    IN    ,           .            .  ,    ^2^ 

XVII.    NEVER   ALL   UP   WHILE   JESUS   LIVES  .  .    I35 

XVIII.    "SUMMAT    IN    IT "    FOR    BESS       .            .  .    I45 

XIX.    BESS   DOES    "WHAT   SHE   COULD"         .  .    I55 

XX.    THE   DARK    HOURS    BEFORE   THE   DAWN  .    167 

XXI.    god's   ANGEL   SENT   AT   LAST       ,            •  .175 

XXII.    A   PLACE   OF   REFUGE           •           .           .  .    185 

XXIIL    AT   HOME 1 93 

XXIV.    OUT   INTO    THE    WORLD       .            •           .  .    203 

XXV.   A   MEETING   AND    A    PARTING      •           .  .    213 

XXVI.   BLESSED  AND   A   BLESSING            •          •  .223 


ILLUSTRATIONS. 


"dot,"  a  city  waif         , 

•        Frontispiece 

PACK 

I 

STAY   THERE          .           .           , 

•             •             • 

44 

DOROTHY    .           ,           ,           , 

•             •             • 

so 

AND   DOT    .... 

•               •               • 

71 

KNOCK          .... 

■             • 

86 

A   LITTLE   COLD    HAND            . 

•           •           • 

no 

"please  t'  help  me"      • 

•             •             • 

124 

"joey  is  safe  home" 

•               •               . 

135 

"I  wouldn't  be  wi'out  thee 

for  th'  world 

140 

"here's  a  go,  dot" 

•             •             • 

179 

somebody  else's  blessing 

•           •           • 

195 

BACK   to  the   old   DAYS     • 

•           •            • 

233 

CHAPTER  L 

**N0  WORK." 

"  "\  T  O  work  for  you  to-day." 

■^  The  words  were   spoken   by  a  burly, 

red-faced  man,  to  a  pale,  miserable-looking  woman, 
who  stood  leaning  heavily  against  the  counter  of 
a  dark  cellar  under  a  large  showy  shop,  which 
stood  in  a  dingy  yet  busy  street  of  a  manufactur- 
ing town;  a  shop  in  whose  crowded  windows 
ready-made  garments  were  ticketed,  at  prices  for 
which,  as  the  customers  said,  "you  could  not 
make  them  yourselves,  counting  nothing  for  the 
work,  let  alone  for  the  sewings." 

Ah  !  those  poor,  pale,  weary-looking  women, 
standing  with  their  bundles  at  that  cellar-counter, 
could  have  told  how  good  reason  there  was  that 
their  employers,  buying  stuff  at  wholesale  prices, 
and  cutting  from  the  piece,  could  afford  to  sell 


lo  Dot. 

those  garments  at  scarcely  more  than  the  retail 
cost  of  material,  "  counting  nothing  for  the  work 
and  sewings." 

"  No  work  for  you  to-day." 

He  threw  down,  as  he  spoke,  a  handful  of 
coppers  before  her,  and  turned  briskly  away  to 
attend  to  the  others  who  stood  waiting. 

No  work  !  It  mattered  little,  one  would  think, 
to  one  so  evidently  unfit  to  do  it  as  the  poor  pale 
creature  to  whom  the  words  were  addressed— a 
tall  slight  woman,  whose  scanty  garments  hung 
loosely  round  a  pitifully  attenuated  frame  ;  whose 
dark  eyes,  sunken  deep,  seemed  yet  unnaturally 
large,  in  contrast  with  the  white,  wasted  face ; 
whose  breath  came  in  such  short,  laboured  gasps 
through  the  dry  bloodless  lips. 

Mattered  little  !  Ah,  the  words  rung  a  very 
death-knell  in  her  ears.  Not  her  own  only — that 
had  mattered  little,  for  though  she  held  no  hope 
of  home  and  rest  beyond  the  grave,  such  a  life  as 
had  been  hers  for  long  must  needs  rob  death  of 
half  its  terrors — but  her  child's;  the  little  helpless 
heritrix  of  all  her  sin  and  sorrow,  between  whom 


*'No  Work"  II 

and  starvation,  or  the  still  more  dreaded  pauper- 
lot,  interposed  only  her  weak  arm. 

She  did  not  offer  to  take  up  the  pittance  flung 
to  her,  the  price  of  long  days  of  unremitting  toil, 
of  very  life  itself,  pressed  slowly,  surely  out — did 
not  move,  but  stood  like  one  stunned. 

No  work  I  Then  she  and  Dot  must  starve  at 
last;  or  worse,  the  landlady  would  fulfil  her 
threat  and  turn  them  out  into  the  streets;  or 
worse  still,  send  for  the  relieving  officer  when  she 
was  too  weak  to  resist,  and  he  would  take  them 
to  the  workhouse,  where  they  would  part  her  and 
Dot.  Too  exhausted — after  the,  to  her,  long 
walk  she  had  had,  coughing  at  every  step,  in  the 
bleak  December  rain — to  think  clearly,  she  could 
only  feel  all  this,  and  helplessly,  hopelessly  gaze 
at  the  great  wave  of  fate,  striven  against  so  long 
in  the  heroism  of  mother-love,  approaching  to 
overwhelm  her  and  tear  Dot  from  her  arms. 

At  last  she  was  startled  by  the  raised  voice  of 
the  paymaster,  who,  glancing  up  and  seeing  her 
still  standing  where  he  had  left  her,  called  out 
roughly, — 


12 


DoL 


"  What  are  you  waiting  there  for  ?  Your 
money's  right,  and  your  room  is  wanted.     Go  1 " 

She  roused  then  and  took  a  step  towards  him, 
her  trembling  hands  clasped,  her  eyes  full  not  of 
tears,  but  of  something  sadder  still. 

"  For  work,"  she  said ;  "  I'm  waiting  for  work  I 
Oh,  sir,  do  give  me  some !  I'll  do  it  better  and 
quicker  this  time,  I  will  indeed,  and — and  for 
what  you  are  pleased  to  give  me." 

"  And  that'll  be  nothing,"  he  said.  "  Can't  put 
up  with  no  more  of  yer  boggling.  Come,  be 
off  I" 

"  It  was  the  cough,  sir,  that  made  my  eyes  so 
bad.     I'm  better  now,  and " 

In  sad  denial  of  her  words  a  paroxysm  of 
coughing  interrupted  them,  and  shook  her  frail 
form  like  a  reed. 

"  Looks  like  it,"  said  the  man,  curtly.  "  No, 
it's  no  use ;  can't  have  good  work  spoiled." 

"But,  sir,"  she  pleaded  as  soon  as  she  could 
speak,  "  if  you  don't  give  us  work  we  must  starve, 
my  little  child  and  I.  We're  alone  in  the  wide 
world,  sir " 


'*No  Work"  13 

'  Oh,  there,  shut  up !  none  o'  that  cant.  There's 
the  work'us  ;  you  can  go  there,  I  s'pose  ?  " 

"  I'd  die  first,"  she  answered,  with  passionate 
bitterness ;  "  for  they'd  take  my  child  from  me, 
my  tender  darling  that  is  more  than  life  to  me. 
Ay,  I'd  die — and  worse,"  she  added,  a  terrible 
gleam  coming  into  her  eye.  She  paused  a  moment, 
a  strong  shudder  shook  her  frame,  and  then, 
clasping  her  hands  as  if  in  terror,  she  pleaded 
once  more — "  Sir,  for  God's  sake,  save  me — give 
me  work  ! " 

"  I  tell  you  I  can't  and  won't,"  was  the  angry 
reply.  "  What  d'yer  mean  by  bothering  like  this, 
when  you've  got  yer  answer  ?  Be  off  with  you,  I 
say,  and  sharp." 

She  fixed  a  look  upon  him  before  which, 
hardened  as  he  was  by  wont  of  resistance  of  pity 
and  pleadings,  by  familiarity  with  suffering  and 
need,  he  cowered  uneasily,  and  which  haunted 
him  for  many  a  day. 

"Then  a  just  God  will  hold^o«  guilty  of  what 
you  diive  nie  to,"  she  said,  in  a  loud  hissing 
whisper ;  and  turning,  strode  out  of  the  place,  in 


14  Dot, 

the  forgetfulness  of  passion  leaving  her  hard- 
earned  coppers  on  the  counter. 

"  Independent,  it  seems,"  said  the  man,  with  an 
uneasy  laugh,  making  a  motion  as  if  to  take  up 
the  money. 

But  from  the  group  of  pale-faced,  heavy-eyed 
women,  who  had  been  listless  spectators  of  the 
too  familiar  scene,  one,  a  cripple,  pressed  forward. 
"  She's  forgot  it,  poor  soul,"  she  said ;  and, 
gathering  up  the  coppers,  hobbled  after  her  with 
what  haste  she  could. 

She  need  not  have  hurried.  The  false  strength 
of  passion  had  soon  exhausted  itself.  The  poor 
woman  was  leaning,  breathless  and  gasping  from 
her  reckless  ascent  of  the  cellar-steps,  against  a 
wall  a  few  yards  off;  but  something  more  than 
the  pallor  of  physical  exhaustion  was  on  her 
white,  set  face ;  the  light  as  of  some  awful 
purpose  gleamed  in  her  wild  fixed  eyes. 

Her  pursuer  had  to  touch  her  to  gain  her 
attention. 

"  Tha's  left  thi  money,"  she  said,  tendering  it. 
"  Eh,  poor  soul,  but  aw'm  sorry  for  thee.     But 


''No   Workr  15 

dunno  thee  look  loike  that,"  as  the  dark  eyes  turned 
blankly  upon  her.  "  There's  One  as  cares  for  thee 
and  t'  choild.     Dost  know  Him,  my  poor  lass  ?  " 

The  girl — she  was  quite  young,  although  so  wan 
and  worn — shook  her  head.  "  Nobody  cares  for 
me,"  she  said. 

"  Eh,  tha'rt  wrong  !  tha'rt  wrong  ! "  answered 
the  cripple,  with  a  beaming  face.  "Aw  thowt 
t'same  once,  when  aw  was  just  as  needy  and 
lonely  as  thysen.  But  aw  know  better  now. 
There's  One  as  cares,  my  lass  ;  One  as  loves  and 
One  as  helps,  bless  His  name  !  Ah  !  tha'  doesna' 
believe  it  ?  "  in  a  tone  of  infinite  regret ;  "  well, 
aw  was  loth  to  mj'sen.  And  aw  conna  speak 
loike  her  as  He  sent  to  tell't  me  ;  and  tha's  not 
fit  to  stand  i'  this  cold  and  wet,  if  aw  could.  But 
si  thee,  lass,"  and  she  drew  from  her  bosom  a 
tastefully  painted  card,  carefully  wrapped  in  paper. 
"  Si  thee  to  this.  Nay,"  with  sudden  resolution 
folding  it  in  its  wrapper  again,  "  but  aw'U  give 
it  thee.  Tak'  it  home,  and  tak'  Him  as  said 
those  words  at  His'n,  as  aw  did,  and  ye'll  foind 
Him  true,  bless  His  name  !  as  aw've  done." 


1 6  DoL 

Passively  the  dazed,  exhausted  creature  took 
the  card  and  coppers,  with  hardly  a  word  of 
thanks — never  to  notice  that  to  the  latter  were 
added  a  few  of  the  cripple's  own  hard-earned  and 
sorely  needed  coins — never  even  to  suspect  that 
any  sacrifice  had  been  made  in  the  gift  of  that 
card — treasured  memorial  of  the  happy  day  when 
the  light  of  heaven  first  shone  upon  a  dark  path 
and  darker  heart,  and  of  the  gentle  messenger 
through  whom  it  came. 

But  the  giver  needed  not  her  thanks.  She  went 
her  painful  way  with  tears  in  her  eyes,  but  a  great 
joy  at  her  heart — the  joy  of  accepted  sacrifice — of 
love  poured  back  in  overflowing  measure  from  a 
Divine  heart  to  her  own.  And  against  the  story 
of  that  deed  in  the  recording  angel's  book  above 
stands  decreed  —  "  an  exceeding  great  reward." 
For  if  the  great  pity  of  a  woman's  heart  had 
prompted  the  gift  of  pence  at  a  cost  of  cold  iind 
hunger,  the  great  love  of  a  redeemed  soul  had 
compelled  the  offering  of  that  one  treasure  of 
a  bare,  beautiless  life. 


CHAPTER  II. 

A   DESPERATE  PURPOSE, 

TVyr  ECHANICALLY  our  poor  friend  put 
'*'  coppers  and  card,  uncounted  and  unread, 
into  her  pocket,  and  started  on  her  homeward 
way,  her  face  wearing  the  same  fixed  look,  half 
terrified,  half  desperate.  It  was  evident  that  the 
cripple's  kindly  and  cheering  words  had  fallen  on 
her  outward  ear  alone. 

Slowly  and  painfully  she  made  her  way  into 
a  district  where  the  streets  grew  narrow  and 
shabbier,  the  air  thick  with  smoke  and  gutter- 
reek.  Ever  and  anon  she  stopped,  partly  to  gain 
breath,  partly  to  -hold  muttered  converse  with 
herself;  for  her  pale  lips  moved,  and  her  thin 
hands  worked,  though  no  words  were  audible. 
Yet  she  would  start  and  look  round  with  a  guilty, 
frightened  look,  and  press  on  again,  with  such 
haste  as  she  could,  on  her  weary  way. 

2 


1 8  Dot. 

At  last  she  sat  down  suddenly  upon  the  steps 
of  a  deserted  warehouse  in  a  narrow  gloomy 
street.  "  I'll  settle  it  one  way  or  other  before  I 
stir  from  this,"  she  said  aloud,  and  burying  her 
face  in  her  hands,  sat  motionless  as  stone. 

One  or  two  people  who  went  by  glanced  care- 
lessly at  her,  and  passed  on,  thinking,  if  they 
thought  at  all,  that  she  was  asleep  or  drunk. 
Asleep  1  And  the  while  a  battle  such  as  fiends 
and  angels  watch  with  breathless  interest  was 
being  fought  in  that  poor  soul  1 

She  looked  up  at  last,  her  white  face  and  wild 
dark  eyes  terrible  in  their  anguish  and  despair. 
"  I  will  do  it,"  she  said  again  aloud.  "  Ay,  I  will 
do  it !  It  will  be  better  for  her — surely  better  for 
her.  For  if  they  part  us  there,  it  will  not  hurt 
her.  No  hunger  there,  no  pain,  no  crying — not 
even  for  a  lost  mother  1  '  Nothing  that  defileth  ! ' 
Ah  me,  how  plain  the  words  come  back  !  No 
dirt,  no  rough  coarse  ways,  no  sin,  no  shame  I 
Oh,  my  lamb,  my  innocent  I  what  better  can  your 
poor  mother  do  than  send  you  there,  even  if  she 
loses  her  own  soul  in  doing  it .? " 


A  Desperate  Purpose.  19 

She  rose,  the  energy  of  a  fixed  purpose  appa- 
rent in  her  feeble  steps,  and  walked  steadily  back 
by  the  way  she  had  come  until  she  reached  a 
druggist's  shop,  before  which  one  of  her  longest 
pauses  had  been  made. 

She  made  no  pause  now ;  her  end,  and  the 
means  to  that  end,  and  the  way  to  obtain  that 
means,  had  all  been  settled  in  her  mind  beforehand. 

She  walked  straight  into  the  shop,  holding  her 
hand  to  her  face  and  rocking  herself  to  and  fro. 
"  I  want  a  drop  of  laudanum,  if  you  please,  sir," 
she  said  to  the  shopman.  "  I  am  almost  worn 
out  with  pain,  and  it  is  the  only  thing  that  gives 
me  relief." 

"  How  much  }  "  was  the  half-suspicious 
response. 

"Well,  sir,  just  the  worth  of  a  few  pence, 
which  I  can  ill  afford  to  spare;  but  what  with 
loss  of  rest  and  pain  I  cannot  do  the  work  that  is 
bread  and  shelter  to  me  and  my  little  one.  But  I 
should  like  a  goodish  drop  that  would  last  a  bit, 
sir,  for  I  live  a  good  way  off,  and  time  and  strength 
are  money  to  me,  that  needs  both  sorely." 


20  Dot. 

"  You  understand  its  nature,  I  suppose — use  it 
only  outwardly." 

"  Well,  sir,  mostly,  though  I  have  taken  a  drop 
or  two  occasionally  at  night,  to  make  me  sleep. 
There's  no  harm  in  that,  I  know,  having  had  a 
relative  who  took  it  regularly." 

"  No  harm,  so  as  you  don't  take  more  than  ten 
or  twelve  drops,  and  are  careful  to  drop  it  exactly 
— but  no  good.  Better  keep  to  the  outside  use  ; 
and  mind  and  put  it  out  of  the  child's  reach,"  said 
the  druggist,  quite  set  at  rest  by  the  woman's 
apparent  simplicity,  and  wondering  much  at  the 
contrast  her  speech  and  manner  afforded  to  the 
wretchedness  of  her  appearance.  "  Have  you  a 
bottle?" 

"  Indeed,  sir,  I  have  not.  I  did  not  think  of  it 
when  I  came  out ;  maybe  you  have  an  old  one  of 
some  sort  you  can  put  it  in  ? " 

"  I  have  plenty  of  bottles,  but  I  usually  charge 

for  them.     However "  He  turned  away  and 

filled  a  small  phial.  "  Be  sure  you  keep  it  out  of 
the  child's  way,"  he  said  again,  as  he  handed  her 
the  bottle  and  took  the  demanded  payment — only 


A  Desperate  Purpose,  21 

half  the  real  charge ;  for  he  pitied  and  thought  to 
help  the  poor  woman,  whose  suffering  and  need 
were  so  evident.  So  blind  and  blundering  are 
we  in  our  kindliest  purposes. 

With  a  muttered  "  Yes,  sir ;  thank  you,  sir," 
she  hurried  from  the  shop,  and  turned  homeward 
once  more,  clenching  the  fatal  phial  tightly  in  her 
hand  and  facing  a  driving  shower  of  sleet. 

Can  we  wonder  much  at  the  terrible  resolution 
to  which  that  poor  thing  had  come  ?  The  work 
upon  the  wretched  proceeds  of  which  she  had 
hitherto  kept  body  and  soul  together  refused  her ; 
without  a  friend  or  a  helper,  as  she  thought,  in 
the  wide  world ;  with  rent  owing  for  the  miserable 
room  she  tenanted  ;  with  the  more  than  possibi- 
lity of  being  turned  out  into  the  cold,  pitiless 
streets ;  with  the  only  refuge  open  to  her,  open 
only  on  a  condition  more  terrible  than  death  itself 
— that  of  severance  from  the  child  she  loved  with 
all  the  fervour  of  a  passionate  nature,  all  the  con- 
centrated intensity  of  a  lonely  and  embittered 
heart ;  with  the  terror  of  leaving  that  child,  as  her 
rapidly  failing  strength  told   her  she  soon  must 


22  Dot. 

leave  her,  a  helpless  waif  on  the  troubled,  unclean 
sea  of  city  life,  to  become,  too  surely,  that  from 
which  she,  sunic  and  wretched  as  she  was,  shrank 
with  loathing ;  with  bodily  powers  exhausted  by 
privation  and  disease — is  it  wonder,  I  ask,  that 
the  grave,  with  her  darling  folded  safe  on  her 
breast  for  evermore,  seemed  a  welcome  refuge, 
beyond  whose  quiet  rest  her  wearied  spirit  had 
scarce  energy  to  look ;  that,  taking  the  form  of  a 
tenderly-cradled  sleep,  murder  seemed  the  best 
gift  her  fettered  mother-love  could  give — suicide 
scarce  a  crime  that  a  merciful  and  righteous  Being 
could  punish  ? 

But  to  understand  her  present  position,  the 
strength  of  its  misery,  the  depth  of  its  degrada- 
tion, we  must  know  something  of  her  past.  Out- 
cast and  waif  as  she  was  now,  she  had  been 
tenderly  reared.  The  only  daughter  of  a  small 
but  well-to-do  farmer,  her  childhood  and  youth 
had  been  spent  amidst  the  fields  and  woods  of  a 
breezy  upland  county.  The  idol  of  her  doting 
parents,  she  had  been  brought  up — as  they,  in 
their  fond  and  foolish  pride  in  a  grace  and  beauty 


A  Desperate  Purpose.  23 

and  refinement  of  taste  unusual  in  her  class, 
declared — "like  a  lady."  The  weeds  of  her  cha- 
racter, vanity,  and  ambition,  and  self-will,  had 
been  fostered  rather  than  checked  by  their  blindly 
admiring  affection.  And  when  temptation,  strong 
temptation,  came  to  her,  they,  simple  folk,  full  of 
the  loyalty  of  old-time  feudal  faith,  were  proud 
and  pleased  that  the  Squire's  son  should  be  quite 
taken  with  their  fair  Alice,  and  dreamed  not  of 
peril  till  their  eyes  were  opened  by  gossiping 
tongues.  Too  late  I  Their  fears  and  tears,  their 
entreaties  and  commands,  were  alike  disregarded. 
A  girl  whose  nature  has  never  been  brought  into 
subjection  to  authority,  principle,  or  affection,  in 
the  simple  rights  and  wrongs  of  every-day  life,  is 
not  likely  to  yield  her  will  when  the  force  and 
glamour  of  a  young,  fervent  heart's  first  passion- 
dream  is  upon  her. 

Alice  did  not,  to  her  bitter  cost.  Young, 
romantic,  and  unsophisticated,  she  went  scornful 
and  smiling  to  her  fate,  finding,  where  her  pure 
mind,  passionate  heart,  and  blind  faith  had  looked 
for  an  Eden  of  bliss,  a  pit  of  ruin  and  shame. 


CHAPTER  III. 

WORSTED   IN   THE   BATTLE. 

TTEW  words  will  tell  how,  step  by  step,  Alice 
"*■  had  come  to  be  what  she  was.  A  fevered 
passion-dream,  whose  every  pleasure  had  a  sting ; 
a  sharp  and  bitter  awakening;  a  sad  reluctant 
letting  go  of  hope;  a  lingering  death  of  trust; 
and  then,  the  crowning  woe  of  all,  desertion — 
and,  with  it,  sickness  almost  unto  death.  Alas  I 
alas !  a  common  and  an  oft-told  tale  I 

Alice  recovered,  to  find  herself,  with  a  helpless 
babe  and  tarnished  fame,  alone  in  the  wide  world. 
Her  long  sickness  amidst  expensive  surroundings 
had  almost  exhausted  the  money  she  possesied. 
Too  proud,  even  in  her  loneliness  and  weakness, 
to  beg  the  forgiveness  and  aid  of  parents  whose 
warnings  and  commands  she  had  contemned,  and 
to  brook  the  thought  of  returning,  a  mark  for  the 


26  Dot, 

finger  of  scorn,  to  the  peaceful  home  of  her  youth 
— too  pure-minded  even  in  her  degradation  to 
touch  more  of  the  wages  of  shame,  she  fled,  as 
soon  as  her  strength  permitted,  from  the  place 
where  her  too  evident  position  exposed  her  to 
temptation  and  insult,  to  a  large  manufacturing 
town,  where,  under  an  assumed  name,  she  hoped 
to  hide  her  identity,  and  maintain  herself  and  her 
babe. 

It  was  easy  to  do  the  former,  but  ah !  how 
pitifully  hard  for  a  weak  lonely  woman,  without 
skill,  without  recommendation,  and  burdened  with 
an  infant,  to  do  the  latter.  She  got  work  indeed, 
at  last,  after  long  effort,  and  after  having  parted 
with  almost  every  article  of  value  she  possessed.- 
But  such  work !  and  such  pay !  Want  of  skill 
precluded  her  taking  any  but  the  coarsest  and 
plainest;  want  of  strength  soon  became  an 
obstacle  to  her  accomplishing  enough  of  that  to 
supply  the  barest  needs  of  life.  The  child  of  the 
breezy  upland  farm  would  probably,  under  any 
conditions,  have  drooped  in  city  air;  but  in  the 
ever  closer  and  dingier  rooms,  in  the  ever  lower 


Worskd  in  tJie  Battle.  27 

and  more  crowded  streets,  which  her  narrowing 
means  forced  her  to  occupy,  AUce  withered  Hice  a 
flower. 

A  few  weeks  before  our  story  begins,  she  had 
made  her  last  possible  move  while  she  retained 
anything  like  a  shelter  for  herself  and  her  child. 
It  was  to  a  miserable  garret  at  the  top  of  a 
crowded  lodging-house,  in  a  narrow  and  filthy 
court  in  one  of  the  lowest  parts  of  the  city. 
There,  sickened  with  despair,  and  with  the 
horrible  things  she  was  obliged  lo  see  and  hear, 
she  had  been  at  last  worsted  in  the  hopeless 
struggle.  Her  illness  had  frightfully  increased ; 
her  rent  had  fallen  into  arrears ;  her  child,  to 
whom  at  all  cost  she  had  hitherto  given  bread  at 
will,  had  been  pinched  with  hunger.  For  though, 
with  the  desperate  heroism  of  mother-love,  she 
toiled  on  and  on,  her  trembling  fingers  and  failing 
eyes  almost  refused  their  functions,  and  three 
days  scarcely  saw  the  task  of  one  achieved. 
What  was  the  result,  we  have  seen. 

And  all  through  this  dreary  downward  course 
did  not  Alice's  pride   give  way  ?     Did  not  her 


28  Dot. 

heart,  yearning  over  her  own  child's  daily  suffer- 
ing, admonish  her  how  her  parents,  once  so  fond 
and  proud,  were  yearning  over  theirs  ?  Oh  yes, 
often  and  often  at  first ;  and  once,  when  her 
darling  was  sick  and  suffering — dyinsc.  she  feared, 
for  want  of  pure  air  and  needful  em  aes  and 
food,  she  broke  down  and  wrote  a  sad,  imploring 
letter,  telling  of  her  bitter  need,  and  pleading  for 
forgiveness  and  help  for  her  innocent  darling's 
sake — wrote,  and  waited  day  by  day  for  answer; 
and,  when  none  came,  in  bitter  hopelessness 
steeled  herself  to  suffer  and  be  strong.  Either 
they  were  dead,  heart-broken  by  her  fall,  or 
pitiless. 

And  did  she  not  then  turn  to  Him  who,  when 
father  and  mother  forsake,  forsakes  not  (Psalm 
xxxvii.  lo),  who  glories  in  the  title  of  "helper  of 
him  that  hath  no  helper"?  (Psalm  Ixxii.  12.) 
Alas!  no,  for  she  knew  Him  not. 


CHAPTER    IV. 

AN  UNEXPECTED    CHAMPION. 

T  T  ER  terrible  purpose  settled,  and  the  means 
■■'-'■  to  its  execution  procured,  a  dull  calm, 
intensified  by  physical  exhaustion,  fell  upon  poor 
Alice's  mind.  The  strained,  terrified  expression 
of  her  face  gave  place  to  one  of  utter  sadness ; 
and  as  she  feebly  dragged  her  painful  way  through 
the  blinding  storm,  tears  mingled  with  the  icy 
raindrops  that  coursed  down  her  cheeks,  and  ever 
and  anon  a  low,  bitter  sob  heaved  her  breast. 
She  was  dimly  conscious  of  an  unutterable  pity 
for  herself — so  young,  so  wretched,  so  utterly 
forsaken ;  of  a  strong  revulsion  against  the  fate 
to  which  she  had  doomed  herself;  of  a  helpless, 
passionate  longing  for  bodily  comfort,  rest 
warmth,  and  kindness.  The  hot  glow  rising 
through  a  grating  from  a  baker's  oven,  laden  with 


30  Dot, 

the  fragrant  odour  of  new-baked  bread,  gave  this 
longing  definite  and  practical  form.  The  poor 
sad  mother  and  hungry  child,  whom  somehow 
she  seemed  to  be  pitying  as  strangers,  should 
have  one  poor  meal  together  yet;  one  of  those 
small  hot  loaves  and  large  currant  buns,  and  a 
pennyworth  of  tea  and  milk,  would  make  them  a 
very  feast.  The  rude  loafers  and  angry  landlady 
in  the  lodging-house  kitchen  might  be  faced  once 
more,  for  it  was  only  once,  and  the  little  hungry, 
bright-souled  child  would  clap  her  little  blue 
hands,  and  laugh,  and  babble  out  her  tale  of  baby 
joy  over  the  warm  and  pleasant  food  and  drink, 
as  gleefully  as  the  pampered  darling  of  some 
bright  home ;  and  the  mother  would  watch  and 
feed  her,  and  almost  forget  the  chilled,  deadly 
faintness  of  her  own  frame  in  the  blessed  sight ; 
and  then — and  then — she  would  wrap  her  in  all 
she  had  of  warm  and  dry,  and  rock  her,  smiling 
and  content,  to  a  sleep  from  which  she  should 
wake  to  tears  and  cold  and  hunger  nevermore. 
She  went  into  the  shop ;  a  bright-faced,  bright- 
haired  man,  of  whom  his  customers  said,   "he 


An   Unexpected  Champion,  31 

always  had  a  pleasant  word,  whether  you  went 
for  pound  or  penn'orth,"  served  her,  and  remarked 
cheerfully, — 

"  Wet  and  cold  to-day,  mistress." 

"Ay,"  she  answered  bitterly,  and  turned 
away  with  something  between  a  groan  and  a  sob ; 
for  she  had  seen,  through  the  open  door  of  a 
living-room,  beyond  the  shop,  a  woman  seated  by 
a  glowing  fire,  with  a  rosy,  romping  baby  in  her 
arms. 

"  Poor  thing  ! "  muttered  the  baker,  looking  after 
her  as  he  dropped  the  pence  into  the  till.  "  She 
must  be  wet  to  the  skin.  And  how  ill  and  poor 
she  do  look  to  be  sure.  Thanks  to  the  drink,  I'll 
engage.  And  to  think  now,  how  extravagant 
her  sort  are.  Nothing  but  the  best  '11  serve  'em. 
Bread  hot  from  the  oven,  and  me  willing  to  sell 
her  a  stale  two-pound  half  price.  It's  disgustin' !" 
And  he  went  back  to  his  cosy  fireside,  and  tossed 
his  crowing  child,  while  the  happy  mother  looked 
proud  and  smiling  on. 

What  a  contrast !  thought,  or  rather  felt,  poor 
Alice.    Ah !  could  those  who  saw  her,  a  drenched 


32  Dot. 

and  ragged  and  despised  outcast,  crawling  un- 
pitied  and  alone  through  those  foul,  dreary  slums, 
have  seen,  too,  into  the  luxurious  drawing-room  of 
a  splendid  mansion,  where,  in  a  tropical  atmo- 
sphere of  warmth  and  glow  and  beauty,  the  man 
who,  trading  on  her  ignorance,  simplicity,  and 
affection,  had  lured  her  to  her  ruin,  sat  caressed 
and  flattered  and  applauded,  they  would  have 
seen  a  greater. 

By  the  time  that  she  had  threaded  the  network 
of  slums  that  led  to  the  one  that  sheltered  her, 
she  was  so  exhausted  that  only  the  thought  of 
her  poor  little  Dot,  whom  the  sheerest  incapacity 
for  carrying  so  far  had  lately  compelled  her  to 
leave  behind,  crying  her  little  heart  out  in  loneli- 
ness and  hunger  and  fear,  kept  her  from  sinking 
fainting  on  the  pavement. 

She  entered  the  doorway  of  her  miserable 
abode.  The  bitter  cold  and  rain  had  driven 
away  the  loungers  that  usually  blocked  it,  but 
from  the  crowded  kitchen  came  a  Babel  of  coarse 
voices,  and  sickening  reck  of  rank  food  cooking; 
and  at  the  stair-foot  sat  two  wretched  children, 


An  Unexpected  Champioit,  33 

who,  quarrelling  over  a  mouldy  crust  found  in 
some  gutter,  were  using  language  loathsome  from 
any  lips,  but  fearful  from  those  of  childhood. 

Shuddering  with  the  thought,  "  Dot  might  come 
to  this  1 "  Alice  began  to  drag  herself  up  the 
steep  and  broken  stairs,  when  a  harsh  voice 
stopped  her,  and  a  tall,  gaunt  woman,  with  sharp, 
shrivelled  features,  and  fierce  black  eyes,  came 
hurrying  out  of  the  kitchen.  "  Here,  here,  young 
ooman,"  she  cried,  in  a  hectoring  tone,  "not  so 
fast,  if  you  please.  Afore  you  go  up  them  stairs 
you  and  me  must  have  a  settlin'.  Jist  remember, 
if  ye  please,  how  long  it  is  since  I've  seen  the 
colour  of  yer  money  ;  and  axe  yerself  if  it's  reason 
as  1,  as  is  a  lone  widder,  sh'd  house  ye  and  yer 
brat  rent  free,  when  folks  is  ready  to  pay  me 
good  money,  and  reg'lar,  for  yer  room.  Axe 
yerself,  I  say." 

Poor  Alice  cowered  before  the  loud,  rough  voice 
and  angry  eyes,  that  pierced  her  like  a  stab. 

"  I — I'm  very  sorry "  she  began. 

"  Hoo  ay,  *  very  sorry,' "  essaying  with  little 
success   to  mimic   Alice's    soft   speech.     "Very 

3 


34  I^oL 

sorry  I  daresay,  and  so  am  I.  But  sorry-fur  ain't 
a  cure-all,  by  no  means ;  and  either  I  see  yer 
money  to-night,  or  you  and  yer  brat  goes  packing. 
There's  a  gen'leman  in  there  as'll  take  yer  place 
and  thank  yer,  and  pay  me  a  hextry  thrippence 
too.  So  I  axe  yer  again,  can  yer  expect  me,  as 
is  a  lone  widder,  to  refuse  a  sound  tater  for  a 
rotten  ^^%  ! "  And  folding  her  arms  akimbo,  she 
looked  unutterable  things. 

"  Of  course  I  couldn't  expect  you  to  shelter  me 
without  pay,  Mrs.  Wicks,"  said  Alice  humbly, 
"  but  this  is  all  I  have  in  the  world .;  you  can  take 
it  if  you  will,"  and  she  held  out  her  few  remaining 
coppers  in  her  open  hand. 

"  Fourpence  ha'penny  ! "  ejaculated  Mrs.  Wicks. 
"  Fourpence  ha'penny  I  And  you  owin*  four-an'- 
sixpence." 

"I  can't  help  it,"  said  Alice  wearily.  "I 
never  meant  to  wrong  you,  Mrs.  Wicks,  and  I 
have  worked  and  worked  till  I  am  dying,  I 
think." 

"  Then  yer'd  best  go  to  the  hospital,  or  'firmary, 
or  work'us,  or  somewhere,"  snapped  Mrs.  Wicks. 


An   Unexpected  Champion.  35 

"  I  won't  be  put  upon  no  longer ;  so  just  fetch  yer 
brat,  and  tramp." 

"  Not  to-night !  oh,  not  to-night!"  pleaded  poor 
Alice.  "  I  cannot ;  I  should  drop  in  the  streets. 
Oh,  Mrs.  Wicks,  have  mercy." 

"And  so  I  will,  on  myself,  as  is  a  poor  lone 
widder,  and  been  put  on  shameful,  and  deceived 
by  your  fine  ways  and  promises.     Come,  fetch  the 

brat  and  be  off  with  ye,  yer "     And  working 

herself  up  into  a  passion,  as  those  who  are  con- 
scious of  a  bad  cause  are  apt  to  do,  she  poured 
out  a  torrent  of  invectives  upon  the  poor  helpless 
creature,  who  leant,  white  and  trembling,  against 
the  wall. 

"  What's  to  du  ?  "  asked  a  woman,  who  entered 
in  its  midst,  as  she  set  down  the  two  large  flat 
baskets  she  carried,  and  wiped  the  streaming  rain 
from  her  face — a  large  coarse  face,  roughened  by 
exposure  and  blowzed  by  drink. 

"  To  do  I  Why,  here's  this  madam,  as  owes  me 
four-and-sixpence,  as  I,  being  soft-hearted  and 
believin*,  have  let  run  for  a  room  as  is  worth 
one-and-nine  a- week — every  ha'penny  of  it,  and 


36  Dot. 

as  I  let  her  have  at  one-and-six — a-hofferin'  me 
fourpence  ha'penny,  and  a-telling  me  it's  all  she 
has  in  the  world,  and  refusing  to  budge.  But 
she  shall,  and  afore  I  stir  from  here,  or  my  name's 
not  Sarah  Wicks." 

"  I  cannot  go  to-night,"  gasped  poor  Alice,  turn- 
ing an  appealing  but  unhoping  look  upon  the  new 
comer.  She  knew  her,  for  she  was  a  fellow- 
lodger,  whose  room  was  near  her  own, — a  drunken, 
roystering  hawker, — there  was  nothing  to  be  hoped 
for  from  her.  *'  I  am  worn  out  with  walking,  and 
faint  with  cold  and  hunger.  I  will  go — I  must — 
but  oh,  not  to-night — for  mercy's  sake,  not  to- 
night!" 

"To-neet!  Aw  sh'd  think  not!  Sail  Wicks, 
tha'rt  a  hard  un,  but  tha's  noan  th'  heart  to 
mean  it." 

"  But  I  do  mean  it.     Why  not  ?  " 

"  If  tha'd  been  out  one  o'  the  noine  hours  aw 
have  been  in  this  rain,  tha'd  ha'  no  need  to  ask. 
Why,  woman,  it  isna  fit  to  turn  a  dog  out  in,  let 
alone  a  sick  woman  and  a  choild ;  foak  would  croi 
shame  on  thee  an  tha  didst." 


An  Unexpected  Champion.  37 

"  I  don't  profess  to  keep  a  refuge  for  the  desti- 
toot,  bein'  a  poor  lone  widder,  but  lodgin's  for 
them  as  can  pay  for  'em,"  retorted  Mrs.  Wicks. 
"  Perhaps,  as  yer  so  charitable  inclined,  Bess 
Branker,  ye'd  like  to  pay  the  fine  madam's  rent, 
as  passed  ye  with  her  nose  in  the  air  as  if  ye  was 
carrion  "  (an  exaggerated  fact ;  poor  Alice,  in  her 
sensitive  shrinking  from  her  coarse  surroundings, 
had  more  than  once  repelled  the  rough  advances 
of  Bess,  who,  when  in  drink,  was  as  sociable  as 
hilarious),  "  and  cook  her  a  tasty  bit  of  yer  fish,  if 
yer  'as  any  good  enough  left.". 

"Aw'd  du  t'  last  and  welcome,  for  00  looks 
welley  clemmed,  poor  thing — and  pay  t'  brass  too, 
to  one  as  wanted  it — but  that's  noan  thee.  Sail 
Wicks.  And  aw  tell  thee  aw'm  not  goin'  to  see 
yon  poor  lass,  as  has  dune  t'  best  00  could  to 
fend  for  hersen  and  t'  choild,  kicked  out  like  a 
dog  as  has  stolen  t'  dinner,  on  such  a  neet  as  this. 
So  go  thy  ways  to  thy  room,  my  lass ;  tha  shalt 
stop  there  till  mornin',  or  my  name's  not  Bess 
Branker.  Nay,  never  fear  her^*  as  Alice's  sad, 
appealing  eyes  sought  Mrs.  Wicks' s,    "  00  knows 


38  Dot. 

which  side  her  bread's  buttered  too  well  to  quarrel 
wi'  me.  Coom  along,  Sail,  and  see  what  aw've  got 
i'  my  baskets.     Aw've  had  a  gradely  day." 

As  Bess  figuratively  asserted,  Mrs.  Wicks  knew 
her  interests  too  well  to  oppose  Bess  Branker  in  a 
thing  whereon  her  heart  was  set.  The  woman 
earned,  by  sale  of  fish  and  poultry,  what,  but  for 
her  dnnking  habits,  would  have  been  a  comfort- 
able living,  was  free  with  her  money,  paid  her 
rent  regularly,  and  treated  Mrs.  Wicks  to  many  a 
tasty  meal  of  fish,  of  which  she  was  excessively 
fond. 

She  gave  way  to  her  now,  therefore,  with  toler- 
able grace.  "  Well,  till  mornin'  then,"  she  said. 
"  Remember,  young  ooman,  not  a  hour  longer, ' 
and  retreated  to  the  kitchen,  slipping  Alice's 
coppers  slyly  into  her  pocket  as  she  did  so. 

Till  morning  !  It  was  all  poor  Alice  asked,  or 
needed.  The  shelter  she  and  Dot  would  require 
after  that  would  be  freely  given. 


CHAPTER  V. 

BESS  BKA.VKER'S  TEA-PART  Y. 

A  BOUT  an  hour  later,  Bess  having  dried  her 
"*•  ^  drenched  garments  at  the  kitchen  fire,  and 
treated  herself  and  "  pals "  to  a  hot  dram  from 
a  quart  spirit  bottle  she  had  provided  for  her 
evening's  refreshment, — it  having  been,  as  she 
said,  a  good  day  v^^ith  her,  the  weather  making 
people  glad  to  buy  at  their  doors  instead  of  sally- 
ing forth  into  the  rain, — w^as  busy  in  her  room, 
on  hospitable  thoughts  intent. 

It  was  a  small,  wretched  place,  pervaded  with 
the  smell  of  stale  fish.  A  low  wooden  bedstead 
in  one  corner,  on  which  was  spread  some  straw 
and  dirty  sacking,  with  a  tattered  horse-rug  for 
coverlet,  an  old  rickety  table,  a  three-legged,  seat- 
less  chair,  a  hamper,  a  deal  packing-case  turned 
bottom  upwards,  and  the  two  large  flat  hawking 


40  Dot. 

baskets,  completed  all  the  furniture.  The  window 
was  grimed  with  dirt,  and  its  many  breakages 
stuflfed  with  rags  and  paper.  The  roof  and  walls 
were  blackened  with  smoke  and  draped  with 
cobwebs.  The  floor  looked — what  in  all  proba- 
bility it  was — a  stranger  of  years  from  soap  and 
water.  The  grate  was  rusty  with  disuse,  for  Bess 
was  of  sociable  habits,  and  usually  preferred  to 
take  her  meals  in  the  kitchen. 

And  yet  this  woman's  weekly  earnings 
averaged  a  sum  amply  sufficient,  but  for  her  fatal 
appetite  and  the  thriftlessness  and  indolence  it 
engendered,  to  have  rented  comfortable  rooms  in 
a  decent  locality,  or  a  neat  cottage  in  the  suburbs, 
and  to  have  maintained  it  in  homely  comfort. 

But  now  there  was  a  bright  fire  burning  in  the 
grate,  a  kettle  was  singing  on  it,  a  teapot  with 
broken  spout  and  handle  kept  company  on  the 
liearth,  from  which  the  heaped  ashes  had  been 
roughly  cleared  for  room,  with  a  large  dish  of 
Finnan  haddie,  well  cooked  with  plenty  of  butter 
at  the  roaring  fire  below.  Two  cups  and  a  mug, 
a  loaf  of  bread  and  a  dish  of  butter,  flanked  by  a 


Bess  Brankers  Tea-Party.  41 

jug  of  milk,  a  bowl  of  white  sugar,  and  the  quart 
bottle  still  three  parts  full,  stood  on  the  table.  In 
the  midst,  a  dip  candle,  fluttering  and  flaring  in 
the  draught  of  the  window,  blazed  in  a  tallow- 
coated  tin  candlestick,  across  which  two  more 
were  laid  in  readiness.  Bess,  her  coarse  face 
beaming  with  pleasure,  was  busy  cutting  substan- 
tial shives  of  bread-and-butter,  keeping  a  watch- 
ful eye  the  while  upon  the  kettle. 

A  gust  of  wind,  coming  through  the  opened 
door  of  a  broken-windowed  room  opposite,  burst 
hers  open.  And  then,  feeble  but  distinct,  was 
heard  the  low,  monotonous  wail  of  a  child.  All 
the  brightness  passed  from  Bess's  face  as  she 
listened  a  moment,  and  then  went  and  shut  the 
door.  "  Aw  conna  bear  t'  hear  it,"  she  muttered. 
"  It  moinds  me  too  much — hey  dear  1 "  and  she 
sighed  heavily. 

Again  the  door  burst  open,  and  again  the  wail 
came  in.  This  time  Bess  did  not  shut  it  "  It's 
cowd  it  is,  poor  little  thing,"  she  muttered.  "  Aw 
wish  aw'd  browt  um  in  afore,  but  now  that  kittle 
*11  bile  over  if  a\»  goes,  as  sure  as  eggs  is  housen. 


42  Dot. 

Ah  I  theer  it  goes.  Now,  tha  shall  have  a  good 
warm,  my  pretty,"  she  said,  as  she  hastened  to  fill 
the  tea-pot. 

Setting  it  down  on  the  hearth  again,  and  giving 
a  satisfied  glance  to  her  preparations,  she  went 
to  summon  her  as  yet  uninvited  visitors — Alice 
and  Dot. 

Along  a  passage,  lit  only  by  the  unwonted  glow 
from  her  room,  Bess  went,  and,  turning  a  corner, 
felt  her  way  up  a  short  ladder-like  stair,  the 
monotonous  wail  of  the  child  guiding  her.  With 
courtesy  seldom  observed  under  that  roof,  but 
due,  she  instinctively  felt,  to  one  evidently  once 
accustomed  to  far  different  surroundings,  she 
thumped,  rather  than  rapped,  at  the  door  with 
her  clenched  fist.  A  momentary  cessation  of  the 
child's  cry  was  the  only  response. 

Bess  thumped  again  anything  but  gently.  The 
child  burst  out  afresh.  "  Ma-ma  !  ma-ma ! "  it 
wailed,  evidently  in  unsoothed  terror. 

"  Oo  conna  ha'  gone  out,  surely,"  said  Bess, 
opening  the  door  and  peering  in.  At  first  she 
could  make  out  nothing  in  the  darkness ;  but  the 


Bess  Branker's  Tea-Party,         43 

child's  cry  came  from  the  floor.  "  Hush,  hush, 
hush,  my  pretty ! "  she  said,  soothingly,  feeling 
her  way  to  the  child  and  picking  it  gently  up ; 
"  hush,  then,  hush,  my  lamb ;  Bess  will  na  hurt 
thee."  Soothed  by  the  caressing  tones,  which 
were  not  altogether  strange  to  her,  and  comforted 
by  the  tenderness  with  which  Bess  folded  her 
to  the  ample  bosom,  in  which  a  woman's  heart, 
coarsened  and  hardened  over,  but  not  slain,  was 
beating  with  unwonted  strength  that  night,  the 
child  ceased  its  cry  and  nestled  closely  to  her. 
"  Theer,  theer,  then  ! "  soothed  Bess,  patting  and 
kissing  it  with  a  kind  of  hungry  tenderness. 
**  Theer,  theer  !  but  wheer's  mammy,  my  lamb  ? " 

"  Ma-ma,  ma-ma  ! "  responded  the  child,  lean- 
ing from  her  clasp,  and  stretching  her  arms  down- 
ward to  the  floor. 

"  The  Lord  ha'  mercy  ! "  gasped  Bess,  as,  follow- 
ing the  suggestion,  her  eyes,  growing  accustomed 
to  the  gloom,  made  out  Alice's  figure  prostrate 
there.     "  Oo  isna  dead,  surely." 

If  not,  she  was  very  like  it,  for  Bess's  vigorous 
calls  and  shakes  made  no   impression — but   her 


44  Dot. 

heart  beat  feebly.  "  Oo's  swoonded  wi'  cowd  and 
hoonger,  and  no  wonder,"  was  Bess's  decision. 
"  If  aw  could  but  get  her  to  my  warm  room  now, 
aw'd  bring  her  to  gradely  theer." 

To  carry  the  child  to  her  room,  place  her  on 
the  bed  with  injunctions  to  stay  there  till  she 
brought  mammy  to  her,  to  snatch  up  the  candle 
and  return  to  the  side  of  the  unconscious  girl, 
was  the  work  of  a  moment.  In  little  more  than 
another,  Bess  had  laid  Alice — a  light  weight  in 
her  practised  arms — upon  the  bed  too,  fetched 
back  the  candle,  and  was  doing  her  best  to 
restore  her. 

The  pungent  smell  of  burnt  feathers  under  her 
nose,  the  few  drops  of  spirit  that  made  their  way 
through  her  closed  teeth,  and  the  more  genial 
atmosphere  of  the  room,  soon  had  the  desired 
effect.  Alice  sighed,  shuddered,  opened  her  eyes, 
and  gazed  around  with  a  startled  look.  "  Where 
am  I.?"  she  murmured  confusedly — "And  oh! 
Where's  Dot  "i " — ^with  sudden  terror,  and  a  vain 
attempt  to  rise. 

Bess  put  her  gently  back.      "Tha'rt  in  Bess 


.•».Y'7><E\E  ~ 


T  Pytn.. 


Bess  Brartkers  Tea-Party.  45 

Branker's  room,  and  safe  and  welcoom  as  if  tha 
wert  i'  a  castle ;  and  thecr's  th'  little  un  a-sittin' 
by  the  fire  eatin'  a  butty.  So  tak'  a  drink  o'  this, 
and  make  thi  moind  easy." 

But  Alice  turned  shudderingly  from  the  rank, 
raw  spirit  held  to  her  lips.  Distasteful  to  her 
when  known  only  as  an  occasional  indulgence,  it 
had  become  hateful  as  the  associate  and  cause  of 
the  misery  and  foulness  around  her.  "  If  you 
would  be  so  kind  as  to  give  me  a  cup  of  tea 
instead,"  she  said  pleadingly,  her  eye  taking  in 
Dot,  in  supreme  content,  and  the  steaming  tea-pot 
on  the  hearth. 

"  Tha  shalt  ha'  a  coop  o'  tea,  and  a  bit  o'  as 
good  haddie  as  ever  wur  cooked  to  it.  But  tak' 
a   scop    o'    coffee  ;  it'll  put  heart  i'  thee." 

The  advice  was  good  under  the  circum- 
stances. 

Alice  obeyed.  The  strong  coffee  sent  the 
chilled  blood  coursing  through  the  veins,  and  she 
was  soon  able  to  listen  to  Bess's  explanations  as 
to  how  she  came  there. 

"  You  are  very  kind,"  she  said,  with  a  pathetic 


46  Dot 

quiver  in  her  voice.  "  I  never  thought  to  have 
that  to  say  to  any  one  again." 

"  Ah,  my  lass,  theer's  mony  a  soft  heart  i'  a 
rough  buzzum.  Aw've  pitied  thee  mony's  th' 
toime,  and  willed  t'  help  thee.  And  mony's  th' 
toime  I've  given  t'  choild  a  boite  and  a  soop  when 
tha  wur  out — Nay,  I  dinna  spak'  on  it  for  thanks, 
but  to  show  that  aw  meant  koind  by  thee  loike." 

"  Oh,  forgive  me  ! "  sobbed  Alice,  remembering 
with  compunction  the  disgust  with  which  she  had 
repelled  Bess's  tipsy  advances.  "  I  have  not  been 
used  to — to  life  like  this." 

"  It's  easy  t'  see  that,  my  lass.  But  coom,  'ave 
thi  tea  while  'ts  hot.  It's  nobbut  hoonger  and 
heartache  that  ails  thee,  aw'm  thinking.  Aw'll 
soon  cure  thee  o'  one,  but  it'll  tak'  a  better  un 
nor  me  to  rid  thee  o'  t'  other,  aw'm  afeared,"  said 
Bess,  with  a  heavy  sigh. 

Right,  Bess.  But  that  better  One  was  near, 
a  guest  at  that  table,  spread  for  those  who  could 
not  repay,  though  neither  thou  nor  poor  Alice 
guessed  it 

With  rough,  but  real  tenderness,  Bess  placed 


Bess  Bra7ikers  Tea-Party.  47 

her  visitor  on  the  best  seat  the  room  afforded, — 
the  three-legged  chair  steadied  by  the  packing 
case, — and  piled  a  cracked  plate  with  the  best 
bits  of  the  haddock  and  well-buttered  bread.  But 
poor  Alice's  appetite  fell  far  short  of  her  wishes 
and  welcome.  The  food  sickened  her,  and  she 
swallowed  with  difficulty.  But  the  hot,  strong, 
well-sweetened  tea,  w^ith  the  quality  of  the  milk 
made  up  by  the  quantity,  was  delicious  and 
refreshing  as  nectar  to  her  feverish  thirst  and 
exhaustion. 

With  a  consideration  one  would  hardly  have 
looked  for,  Bess  left  her  undisturbed  by  talk  or 
questioning.  "  Get  thi  baggin'  i'  quoiet,"  she  said. 
"  We'n  ha'  a  bit  o'  chat  by-and-by,  when  tha's 
got  a  bit  more  heart  i'  thee."  And  she  busied 
herself  with  feeding  the  delighted  little  one,  who, 
her  sorrov/s  all  forgotten  in  present  delight,  ate 
and  drank,  and  cooed  and  prattled,  in  inarticulate 
baby  fashion,  and  stretched  out  her  little  red  toes 
in  the  welcome  warmth,  to  Bess's  infinite  delight. 

Bess  had  reaped  a  reward  from  a  hard  day's 
work  ;  she  knew  not  that  she  would  reap  a  richer 


48  Dot. 

for  the  feast  she  spread  for  those  helpless  and 
hungry  ones — that,  of  such  deeds,  it  is  said  by 
the  lips  of  Incarnate  Truth,  "They  shall  in  no 
wise  lose  their  reward." 


CHAPTER   VI. 

CONFIDENCES. 

'T^HE  "  bit  o'  chat "  ensued  in  due  course, 
■*  beginning,  as  was  natural,  about  the  child. 
"  Eh,  but  oo's  a  pretty  un,"  said  Bess,  looking 
admiringly  into  the  now  rosy  baby-face,  "and 
loike  'ts  mother  as  a  farden  to  a  wawpenny. 
What  may  'ts  name  be  now  ? " 

"  Dorothy." 

"  Dor-ror-thy }  That's  a  foine  name  now,  and 
one  as  aw  never  heerd  on.  "What  browt  it  to  ye, 
loike  ?  " 

"  It  was  my  mother's,"  Alice  answered,  a  look 
of  exceeding  pain  crossing  her  brightened  face. 
Then  hastily,  as  if  to  turn  the  subject,  "She  is 
getting  sleepy.  Dot,  my  darling,  kiss  kind  Mrs. 
Branker;  kiss  her  good-night,  and  love  her  for 
your  nice  tea."     The  child,  a  bright  little  thing  of 

4 


50  Dot, 

some  sixteen  or  eighteen  months,  lifted  its  soft 
lips  trustfully,  and,  as  Bess  bent  to  meet  them, 
clasped  its  little  arms  tightly  round  her  neck. 

To  Alice's  amaze,  Bess,  as  she  strained  her 
convulsively  to  her  breast,  burst  into  a  passion  of 
tears.  The  child  was  frightened,  and  stretched 
out  her  arms  to  her  mother,  who  took  her 
quickly. 

"  Theer,  I've  druv'  her  away,"  gasped  Eess. 
"  But,  oh  !  I  conna  help  it !  Oh,  my  lamb,  my  lost 
murdered  lamb  I "  and  she  sobbed  as  if  her 
heart  would  break,  Alice  looking  on  in  pitiful 
and  helpless  wonder. 

It  was  long  before  Bess  could  speak  again. 
"  Tha'llt  wonder  t'  see  me  loike  this,"  she  said  at 
last.  "  Jist  wi'  th'  clip  o'  a  choild's  arms.  But 
aw'd  a  little  un  once,  mysen,  and — and " 

"  And  you  lost  it  t  " 

"  Ay,  aw  lost  it,  th'  little  tender  darlin',  as  wur 
all  aw  had  to  loove,  all  as  ever  looved  m.e,  and  i' 
sich  a  way! 

"Aw  was  work'us  bom  and  bred,  tha  sees," 
she  continued,  never  loth  to  talk,  and  drawn  on 


'.dq-rpTHy^ 


TR<Tn 


Confidences.  5 1 

by  the  sympathy  in  Alice's  face,  "  and  wur  browt 
up  hard  and  rough,  \vi'  never  a  kiss  nor  a  kind 
word,  and  never  know'd  kith  nor  kin.  When  aw 
wur  old  enough  aw  wur  put  to  service,  and  a 
hard  service  it  wur,  wheer  aw  got  nowt  but  my 
meat  and  my  clothes,  and  little  enough  o'  both. 
Aw  left  it  after  a  while,  and  got  another  noan  so 
mich  better.  Theer  wur  childer  i'  both,  but  they 
were  nowt  to  me,  but  things  as  aw  had  to  wash 
and  dress,  and  keep  out  o'  mischief  if  aw  could. 
Aw  didna  know  what  loove  was  till  my  little 
darlin'  coom. 

"  Aw  married  a  chap  aw  met  i*  t*  street  when 
aw  went  o'  my  errands.  Aw  knew  nowt  on  him, 
but  oo  said  oo  wur  gettin'  a  good  v/age — and  so 
oo  wur — but  oo  wur  as  good  un  at  spendin'  as  at 
gettin' — and  aw  thowt  'twould  be  a  foine  thing  to 
be  my  own  missus.  Aw  meant  well  by  him,  and 
by  mysen  too,  though.  But  aw  found  aw'd  got 
out  o'  t'  froyin'-pan  into  t'  foire — got  hard  blows 
wheer  aw'd  only  had  hard  words  afore,  and  was 
often  welley  clemmed  when  Sam  was  on  t'  spree 
—  till  aw  got  work  i'  a  mill  and  kep'  mysen. 


52  Dot. 

"  But  i'  toime  my  little  darlin'  wur  born,  and 
wi'  her  my  heart  seemed  t'  wakken  oop  loike,  and 
loife,  hard  as  it  wur,  t'  get  worth  livm'.  Aw 
needna  tell  thee  what  oo  was  to  me,  tha'st  had  a 
different  bringln'  oop  ;  but  aw  con  see  as  yon 
choildt's  all  th'  world  to  thee  now,  so  tha'llt  know 
what  my  little  Nell  wur  to  me.  Eh-h-h,  oo 
wur  a  bonnie  un,  wi'  oiyes  loike  forget-me-nots, 
and  sich  pretty  winnin'  ways,  aw'd  a  give  my 
loife,  willin',  any  day  for  her.  But  t'  fayther,  he 
thowt  nowt  on  her,  and  got  into  worse  ways, 
playin'  by  weeks  together,  and  gettin'  in  wi'  a  lot 
o'  burglar  chaps.  Aw  could  get  no  brass  out  o' 
him,  and  aw  couldna  leave  my  darlin'  to  work  i' 
the  mill,  so  aw  took  to  hawkin'  a  bit  o'  foine  days, 
carryin'  t'  choildt  and  t'  basket.  But  it  wur  hard 
work,  and  before  long  aw  got  a  little  cart  as  aw 
could  push  along  wi'  her  and  my  stoof.  But  one 
neet  him  and  me  had  words  because  aw  wouldn't 
turn  oop  t'  brass  aw'd  earned,  and  he  kicked  t* 
cart  to  pieces,  and  give  me  two  black  eyes  i'  th* 
bargain.  Aw  wur  ashamed  to  face  t'  foak  aw 
served  for  a  day  or  two,  but  at  last  aw'd  spent  all 


Confidences.  53 

aw  had,  and  wur  out  o'  coals,  and  t'  choildt  wur 
cowd  and  hoongry,  and  so  aw  wur  forced  t'  turn 
out.  'T  wur  jist  sich  a  day  as  this,  pouring  o' 
rain  and  th'  wind  loike  oice,  and  t'  choild  a 
vvheezin'  and  coughin',  so  thinks  oi,  it'll  do  her 
less  harm  to  croi  a  bit  than  to  go  out  i*  th'  wet. 
So  aw  lapped  her  oop  well,  and  fastened  her  down 
i'  th'  bed,  so  as  00  couldn't  get  out,  and  covered 
her  oop,  and  went  my  way. 

"  Aw  coom'd  back  as  soon  as  aw'd  made  a  shil- 
lin'  or  so,  for  my  moind  was  ill  at  ease.  Some- 
how aw  seemed  to  hear  her  croi,  croi,  croying  and 
calling,  '  Mammy,'  a'  th'  toime.  But  aw  wur  too 
late!  Odd  coom  in,  blind  drunk,  and  flung  hisser 
on  t'  bed '' 

"  Not  on  the  child  ! "  gasped  Alice,  as  Bess 
paused,  unable  to  proceed. 

"  Ay,  on  t'  choild,"  was  the  sobbed-out  answer ; 
"reet  o'  top  o*  her  Aw  chucked  him  off  as  if 
oo'd  been  a  feather,  but  it  wur  to  late,  »o  wur 
crooshed  and  dead — dead  and  crooshed,  mj-  pretty 
darlm'." 

"  Oh,  poor  thing,  poor  thing ! "  exclaimed  \lice, 


54  I>ot. 

leaning  forward,  and  touching  the  coarse  red  hand 
on  Bess's  knee.     "  What  did  you  do  ? " 

Bess  raised  her  face  with  a  strange  look  on  it. 
"  Aw  did  nowt  to  him  !  "  she  said.  "  AwVe  won- 
dered ever  sin',  but  aw  did  nowt  to  him.  Theer's 
some  foak  as  says  as  theer's  One  above  as  knows 
all  as  happens  to  us  poor  foak  and  keeps  us  out  o' 
harm.  It  doan't  look  mich  loike  it  i'  general,  but 
whenever  aw  think  as  aw  did  not  kill  him  as  he 
lay  a  helpless  log  on  t'  floor,  and  a  knife  o'  th' 
table  by  me,  aw  think  theer  must  be — aw  think 
theer  must  be,  lass  ! " 

"  Certainly  God  knows,  and  I  suppose  He 
cares"  said  Alice  slowly,  a  rush  of  many  thoughts 
coming  into  a  mind  far  less  ignorant,  but  scarcely 
more  spiritually  enlightened,  than  Bess's. 

"  Well,  soontmat  held  my  hand,  and  aw  didna 
tooch  him.  But  aw  couldna  bear  t'  soight  o'  him 
after.  As  soon  as  my  little  darlin'  wur  buried, 
aw  tramped  it  here  by  neet  that  he  shouldna 
foind  out  wheer  aw'd  gone.  And  soon  after  oo 
got  ketched  a-breakin'  into  a  shop,  and  got  four- 
teen year,  and  aw've  never  heerd  on  him   sin'." 


Confidences.  55 

She  heaved  a  heavy  sigh,  and  taking  up  the  spirit 
bottle  poured  herself  out  a  dram. 

"  It's  been  my  only  friend,"  she  said,  deprecat- 
ing Alice's  look  of  dread  and  disgust.  "  A  bad  un, 
happen,  but  th'  only  one  aw  could  pick  up  wi'  as 
could  coomfort  me.  I'd  never  took  mich  afore,  but 
when  aw  went  my  ways  wi'  that  wailin'  croi  o' 
'Mammy,  mammy,'  and  its  end  i'  a  smotherin' 
scream  i'  my  ears  as  plain  as  if  aw'd  been  theer  to 
hear,  it  giv'  me  sleep,  and  it  giv'  me  heart  as  nowt 
else  aw  know'd  on  could  ha'  done,  and  by  its  help 
aw've  got  on  pretty  gradely  loike,  and  am  as  jolly 
as  most  foak  i'  general.  Theer,  my  lass,  that  is 
moi  story ;  and  now  let's  hear  thoine.  Gi'  me  th* 
choild  th'  whoile  though ;  it'll  ease  thy  poor  arms 
and  my  heart." 

And  Alice,  her  heart  opened  by  sympathy  and 
kindness,  to  her  surprise  found  herself  glad  to 
pour  out  to  the  coarse,  drunken  hawker,  from 
whom  she  had  but  a  few  hours  ago  shrunk  in 
loathing,  the  tale  of  sin  and  wrong  and  sorrow 
which  had  never  before  passed  her  lips. 

It  was  listened  to  with  rough,  but  most  true  and 


56  Dot. 

kindly,  sympathy.  "  Eh,  my  poor  lass,  but  tha'st 
been  hardly  done  by,"  was  Bess's  final  comment, 
as  Alice,  stopping  short  at  the  terrible  resolve  of 
the  afternoon,  paused.  "And  tha  doesna  know 
wheer  oo  is  now  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  know,  and  I  do  not  care.  I  would 
rather  die  than  touch  one  penny  from  him  or  his,"^ 
said  Alice,  divining  Bess's  thoughts. 

"  But  tha  must  have  some  kin  that  could  help 
thee,  sure  "i " 

Alice  shook  her  head.  "  I  know  of  none ;  I 
was  an  only  child,"  she  answered.  "  No,  I  have 
no  one  to  help  me.  We  must  die,  Dot  and  I,"  she 
murmured,  as  if  to  herself. 

"  Nay,  nay,"  said  Bess  cheerily.  "  Doan't  thee 
say  that.  Theer's  places  for  sick  foak  as  can't 
help  themselves." 

"  There's  the  workhouse,  where  they  would 
take  Dot  from  me  and  make  her  what — and  bring 
her  up  as  you  were  brought  up,  Mrs.  Branker. 
Better  know  her  dead  and  safe — dead  and  safe," 
interrupted  Alice  with  fierce  vehemence. 

''Well,   well,"    said    Bess   soothingly.      "But 


Confidences.  5/ 

till  ye  get  stronger  a  bit,  it  moightn't  be  so 
bad,  ye  know." 

"  I  shall  never  get  stronger,  Mrs.  Branker. 
I'm  dying — I  feel,  I  know  it.  And  I  think  I 
had  better  take  Dot  with  me." 

"  Mercy  on  us  I  What  does  tha  mean  ?  "  asked 
Bess  in  alarm. 

"Nothing,  nothing,"  said  Alice  hastily,  "only 
I  can't  bear  to  think  what  will  become  of  Dot 
when  I  am  gone,"  and  closing  her  eyes  with  a 
shudder  as  from  some  terrible  sight,  she  leaned 
her  head  wearily  against  the  dingy  wall. 

"Tha'rt  wore  out,  poor  lass,"  said  Bess  com- 
passionately, "what  wi*  th*  walk,  and  th'  storm, 
and  Sail  Wicks's  tongue.  Eh,  oo's  a  hard  un,  but 
aw'm  a  match  for  herl  and  oo'll  noan  turn  thee 
and  th'  choildt  i'  th'  street  whoile  Bess  Branker's 
a  roof  over  her  yed.  Moind  that,  my  lass.  Tha 
coom  here  i'  th'  mornin',  if  oo's  fur  turnin'  thee 
out  whoile  aw'm  at  t'  market,  and  stay  till  tha 
con  foind  a  better  friend  and  shelter.  Tha'rt 
koindly  welcoom." 

There  could  be  no  doubt  of  that.     The  coarse 


58  Dot, 

face  was   beaming   with    kindliness ;   the   rough 
speech  instinct  with  feehng. 

It  was  now  Alice's  turn  to  burst  into  a  passion 
of  tears.  "  Then  I  need  not  do  it  to-night !  "  she 
cried.  "  Oh,  God  bless  you  !  God  bless  you  ! 
You  don't  know  what  you  have  saved  me  from  ! " 
and  flinging  herself  upon  her  knees,  and  clasping 
her  arms  round  Bess  and  the  sleeping  Dot,  she 
sobbed  forth  a  confession  of  her  dreadful  purpose. 


CHAPTER   VII. 

BESS  BRANKER    GIVES   AN   OPINIOIT. 

"  "rj*H-H-H,  my  lass,"  Bess  said,  when  Alice 

-*— '  had  finished,  stroking  the  bowed  dark 
head  with  as  tender  a  touch  as  jewelled  fingers 
could  have  given.  "  Eh,  my  lass,  but  aw'm  glad 
aw  coomed  when  Sail  wur  jawin'  thee,  or  aw'd 
ha*  knowed  nowt  about  it." 

"  God  sent  you  I "  said  Alice,  with  strong  and 
sudden  conviction. 

"Dost  think  so?"  queried  Bess  in  an  awed 
tone.  "Beloike,  if 't  wur  Him  as  held  my  hond 
fr*  Sam.  But  nay,  lass,  He'd  ne'er  mak'  use  o* 
an  owd  sinner  loike  me!" 

"  Not  to  help  a  sinner  like  me  ?  "  rejoined  Alice, 
with  new  and  strange  humility.  "Oh,  Bess,  I'm 
worse,  a  thousand   times,    than   you  !     /  sinned 


6o  Dot. 

against  love,  such  love !    Oh,  father  I  oh,  mother ! " 
and  she  hid  her  face  with  a  long  wailing  moan. 

"They  must  be  dead,"  she  said,  looking  up 
after  a  time,  "  they  loved  me  so,  they  must  have 
forgiven  me — ungrateful,  cruel,  wicked  as  I  had 
been — if  they  had  read  my  letter,  and  knew  my 
need  and  misery ;  don't  you  think  so,  Bess  ?  " 

"Ay,  lass,"  Bess  answered  slowly,  as  though 
working  out  a  problem  in  her  mind.  "  They  mun 
ha'  forgiV  thee,  if  th'  pairent's  heart  i'  them 
wur  owt  loike  th'  mother's  heart  i'  me.  If  my 
Nell  had  growed  up  bad  and  cruel,  aw'd  ha' 
forgiv'  and  looved  her  through't  all,  aw  know  aw 
should.  And  if  oo  had  trampled  o'  mi  loove  and 
forgiveness  a  score  o'  toimes,  aw'd  ha'  been  as 
ready  to  forgive  and  forget  th'  moment  oo  said  : 
'Aw'n  sorry,  mother.'  Ay,  and  before,  if  aw 
knowed  her  i'  need  or  sorrow.  Aw  know  aw 
should ;  there's  that  here  as  tells  me."  And  she 
laid  her  hand  upon  her  heart.  "But,  my  lass, 
aw'in  thinkin'  tha  didna  wroite  but  once.  Happen 
fhey  ne'er  got  th'  letter ! " 

A    sudden    flash  of  hope  lit  Alice's  woe-worn 


Bess  Branker  gives  an  Opinion.     6 1 

face,  but  it  faded  swiftly  into  the  blankness  of 
despair,  as  she  said,  gaspingly,  "They  must, 
oh,  they  must !  It's  an  out-of-the-way  place,  and 
I  was  afraid,  and  took  such  care,  and  posted  it 
myself.  Besides,  I  should  have  had  it  back.  I 
stayed  on,  waiting,  waiting,  though  the  lodgings 
were  so  dear, — it  was  in  Embden  Street,  London 
Road, — for  full  a  month,  and  called  and  asked. 
Oh  yes — they — some  one  at  least  must  have 
had  it." 

"Well,  aw  don't  know  mich  about  letters, 
mysen,  never  had  one  i'  my  loife,  or  writ  one, 
tha  may  be  sure.  But  aw'm  thinkin'  aw'd  wroite 
again,  if  aw  wur  thee.  Soommat  motght  ha' 
happened,  things  does  get  lost  i'  queer  ways, 
and  happen  t'  owd  foak  are  breakin*  their  hearts 
for  news  o'  thee  all  th'  toime  tha'rt  thinkin'  um 
hard,  or  dead." 

Alice  shook  her  head,  though  a  gleam  of  hope 
came  back  into  her  sad  eyes. 

"  Eh,  but  aw  would,"  persisted  Bess.  "Aw'll 
bring  thee  a  bit  o'  papper,  and  stamp  and  a', 
when  aw  coom  whoam  to-morrow,  and  tha  shall 


62  Dot, 

wroite,  and  male'  thysen  welcoom  to  boite  and 
soop  and  shelter  till  t'  answer  cooms.  So  now 
lay  thee  down,  my  lass,  on  yon  bed  i'  th'  warm, 
and  rest  thee  a  bit.     Tha'rt  welly  wored  out." 

Yes,  Alice  was  nearly  worn  out,  more  nearly 
than  Bess  thought,  and  gladly  complied.  "  Theer," 
said  Bess,  as  she  laid  the  sleeping  child  in  her 
eagerly  out-stretched  arms.  "  Tha  sleep  till 
momin'  if  tha  con.  Aw  con  sleep  on  t*  floore 
a'  reet,  does  it  often,  by  chice." 

True,  yet  untrue,  poor  uncared-for,  generous 
Bess ;  for  the  choice  is  rather  a  necessity  and  a 
too-frequent  one. 

Bess  washed  up  the  cups  and  saucers  she  had 
borrowed,  piled  more  coal  on  the  fire,  and  sat 
down.  Alice  lay  motionless,  apparently  asleep, 
and  Bess  soon  grew  very  weary  of  the  stillness 
and  silence,  and  of  the  freshly-wakened  pain  at 
her  heart.  But  by  the  help  of  a  pull  or  two  at 
the  spirit  bottle  she  bore  it  for  an  hour  or  so, 
listening  more  and  more  longingly  to  the  sounds  of 
rough  merriment  rising  from  the  crowded  kitchen 
below.     Like  too  many  of  the  world's  mourners. 


Bess  Dj'ankcr  gives  an  Opinion.      63 

she  knew  of  no  better  balm  for  sorrow  than  the 
brief  forgetfulness  excitement  brings ;  no  better 
stimulant  for  the  slowly-beating,  heavy-laden  heart 
than  that  which  the  intoxicating  cup  contains. 
No  one  had  told  her  of  a  love  that  passeth  know- 
ledge, divine,  and  yet  human,  entering  with  the 
keen,  deep  sympatliy  of  experience  into  every 
trial  of  the  earthly  life  it  has  stooped  to  share, 
into  every  pang  of  the  nature  it  has  worn ;  taking 
the  sting  from  every  sorrow,  the  canker  from 
every  care.  No  one  had  even  told  her  of  a  God 
that  cared  for  and  pardoned  and  saved  the  help- 
less and  sorrowful.  From  the  services  she  at- 
tended in  her  youth  at  the  workhouse  she  had 
only  brought  away  a  vague  idea  of  a  Great  and 
Dreadful  Being  above,  Whose  hand  was  inexorably 
against  sin  and  the  sinful.  Since  those  days  she 
had  never  entered  a  place  of  worship,  and  though 
from  time  to  time  she  had  met,  as  she  said,  "  foak 
who  believed  as  there  was  One  above  as  knew  all 
as  happened,  and  kep'  em  out  o'  harm,"  no  man 
had  cared  for  her  soul,  and  told  her  there  was  a 
Father,  a  Saviour,  a  heaven  for  her — poor  sinful, 


64  Dot. 

sorrowful,  roystering  Bess  Branker  I  Is  it  wonder, 
therefore,  that  as  she  sat  there,  heavy-hearted 
and  dull,  the  familiar  sounds  from  below  should 
lure  her  like  a  spell  ? 

"  Aw  may  as  well  go  down  a  bit,"  she  said  at 
last.  "  Sail  '11  be  wanting  her  pots,  happen."  And 
gathering  them  together,  she  went,  stopping  as  she 
passed  to  look  at  her  sleeping  guests. 

The  child's  face  was  hidden,  but  the  flickering 
firelight  played  full  on  the  mother's,  revealing  the 
chiselled  delicacy  of  the  worn  features,  the  grace- 
ful sweep  of  the  long  curled  lashes,  the  sweet  set 
of  the  lips,  over  which,  as  Bess  looked,  a  faint 
smile  quivered. 

"  Oo's  dreamin',  poor  thing,"  was  her  comment. 
"  Eh,  but  oo's  been  a  gradely  lass,  and  to  think 
oo  should  come  to  this !  And  aw  conna  think 
her  foak  is  dead — sorrow  don't  kill  that  easy. 
Na-ay,  soommat  went  wrong  wi'  t'  letter,  and 
theer's  better  days  nor  she  thinks  i'  store  fur  her, 
aw'm  thinkin'." 

Ah,  there  were,  and  near  at  hand ! 


CHAPTER   VIII. 

THE   PRODIGAL'S   RETURIT, 

A  LITTLE  longer  Alice  slept,  dreaming  plea- 
sant dreams  it  seemed,  for  smiles  played  ever 
and  anon  around  the  lips  to  which  they  had  so  long 
been  strangers.  But  suddenly  she  woke  with  a 
start,  and,  raising  herself  upon  her  elbow,  gazed 
around  with  a  wild,  terrified  look,  then  sank  back 
with  a  groan  of  anguish.  "  A  dream !  only  a 
dream !  Would  God  I  had  never  woke  I "  she 
cried,  and  burst  into  a  passion  of  tears. 

Blessed  tears !  gift  of  God's  love  to  over- 
burdened nature,  melting  in  their  flow  the  ice 
of  hardness  and  despair,  softening  the  heart-soil 
bound  with  sorrow's  frost.  Those  Alice  had  shed 
on  Bess's  knee  had  brought  in  their  train  humility, 
penitence,  and  yearnings  which  had  awoke  long- 
banished  memories  in  her  breast — memories  which, 

5 


66  *        Dot. 

lapsing  into  dreams,  had  borne  her  back  beyond 
the  gulf  which  yawned  between,  to  the  old  days 
and  ways,  and  dear,  familiar  scenes  and  faces. 
Once  more  on  her — a  fair  light-hearted  girl — a 
Sabbath  morning  had  dawned  in  her  old  chamber 
in  the  farm  upon  the  hill.  Once  more  she  had 
fed  her  cooing  doves,  and  trod  the  fragrant  garden- 
paths,  culling,  in  happy  wont,  one  bouquet  for  her 
breast,  another  to  lay  upon  the  lavender-scented 
kerchief  that  enfolded  her  mother's  prayer-book. 
Once  more  she  had  tripped  lightly  by  her  parents* 
side  across  the  breezy  upland  fields,  joining  with 
neighbours  by  the  way ;  turning  to  hasten  the 
gossips,  as  the  last  bell  from  the  old  grey  tower 
pealed  forth  its  mellow  "Come!  Come!  Come!" 
Once  more  she  had  passed  the  churchyard  path, 
and  flung  smiles  and  glances  to  the  loiterers 
round ;  once  more,  as  the  bell's  last  stroke  fell, 
she  had  entered  the  cool,  solemn  shadow  of  the 
church,  and  heard,  amidst  the  hush  that  followed 
tramp  of  feet  and  creak  of  doors,  the  well-known 
words :  "  I  will  arise,  and  go  to  my  Father,  and 
will  say  unto  him,  Father,  I  have  sinned " 


The  Prodigals  Return.  67 

And  then  suddenly  she  had  wakened  to  find 
herself  a  sad  and  sick  and  beggared  outcast  in 
Bess  Branker's  squalid  room  ! 

Oh,  bitter,  bitter  wakening !  "  Would  God  I 
had  never  woke  I "  Alice  cried.  "  Would  God  that 
I  might  die ! "  cried  one  of  old,  when  beside  him 
stood,  unseen,  God's  angel  with  provision  for  an 
unknown  journey  near,  a  journey  great  and  long 
— even  unto  the  mount  of  God. 

Before  Alice,  too,  lay  that  journey ;  beside  her, 
too,  stood  God's  angel.  For  as  she  wept  the 
pride  and  bitterness  that  had  steeled  her  heart  so 
long  broke  down,  and  love  and  grief  and  peni- 
tence swept  over  it  like  a  flood.  "  I  have  sinned  I 
I  have  sinned ! "  was  her  soul's  deep  cry,  and  still 
softly,  sweetly,  strangely,  like  a  voice  of  mighty 
tone,  the  church-bell  pealed  its  "Come!  Come! 
Come  ! "  in  her  ears,  and  the  words,  "  I  will  arise, 
and  go  to  my  Father,"  rung  like  sweetest  music 
through  her  soul. 

At  first  it  was  but  of  earthly  love  and  pardon 
she  thought.  The  "Come  !  Come  !  Come  !"  seemed 
but  an  earthly  parent's  ca'l ;  her  "I  will  arise" 


68  Dot. 

was  of  filial  penitence  alone.  Hope  and  trust 
sprang  up  in  her  heart,  and  for  a  while  she  lay, 
dreamy  and  content,  drawing  hope  for  the  dreary 
present  and  dreaded  future  from  sweet  memories 
of  the  lo\e-lit  past. 

But  suddenly — how  roused  she  could  not  tell — 
she  became  conscious  that  a  strange  numb  torpor 
was  stealing  over  her — that  a  pressure,  as  of  a 
cold  and  heavy  hand,  was  on  her  breast — DeatKs? 
Could  it  be  ? 

Could  it  be  ?  and  she  alone,  alone,  and — now 
her  wakened  spirit  felt — guilty  and  unprepared  ? 
She  started  up  in  terror,  and  clasped  her  chill 
hands  wildly,  and  gazed  around  in  terrified  appeal. 
In  vain ;  not  even  Bess  was  there !  Then  from 
her  pale  lips  broke  Nature's  instinctive  cry — 
"  Help  I  help  me,  O  my  God  1" 

That  was  not  in  vain.  Ere  uttered  God's 
answering  messenger  had  been  sent;  no  bright- 
robed  angel,  but  a  poor  crippled  sinner,  who  loved 
— because  forgiven — much. 

The  fire  burnt  hollow,  fell  together,  and  sent 
a  steady  sheet  of  flame  that  lit  up  every  corner 


The  Prodigar s  Return.  69 

of  the  small  room.  By  its  light  Alice,  turning 
yearningly  to  look  at  Dot,  saw  something  lying  on 
the  bed  beside  her.  It  was  the  card  the  crippled 
woman  had  given  her,  forgotten  until  then.  She 
took  it  up  at  first  listlessly,  but,  as  she  unfolded 
the  wrappings,  the  woman's  earnest  words  and 
tones  came  back  to  her,  and  she  paused  in  her 
task.  "There's  One  that  cares,  and  One  that 
helps,"  the  cripple  had  said.  And  had  she  not 
spoken  truth  ?  Had  God  not  sent  Bess  to  minister 
to  Ler  needs,  to  save  her  from  her  awful  purpose, 
to  win  her  to  hope  and  penitence  by  kindness  ? 
Yes,  she  had  spoken  truth.  And  she  had  bidden 
her  take  Him  who  had  spoken  the  words  upon 
that  card  at  His  word,  and  be  helped  as  she  had 
been.  What  were  the  words  ? — such  as  would 
help  her  now  ?  Made  eager  by  the  thought,  she 
shook  off  the  wrappings,  and  read,  printed  in 
fair,  clear  characters  : — 

"Come  unto  Me,  all  ye  that  are  weary  and 
heavy  laden,  and  I  will  give  you  rest." 

"Him  that  cometh  unto  Me,  I  will  in  nowise 
cast  out". 


70  Dot, 

For — • 

"  The  Son  of  man  is  come  to  seek  and  to  save 
that  which  was  lost." 

Again  and  again,  and  yet  again,  she  read  it; 
and  then  she  sat,  her  dark  eyes  wide  and  fixed, 
her  face  wearing  the  look  of  one  that  listens. 
And  she  was  listening — listening  to  One  whose 
office  it  is  to  bring  to  remembrance  long-forgotten 
things ;  to  bring  to  life  seeds  sown  in  faith  and 
prayer.  He  spoke  to  her  in  the  remembered 
words  and  tones  of  one  on  whose  lips  the  dust  of 
death  had  long  lain, — the  vicar's  gentle  daughter, 
— who,  in  the  days  of  Alice's  early  girlhood,  had 
sought,  earnestly  and  prayerfully,  but  vamly  it 
had  seemed,  to  win  for  Christ  the  girls  of  her 
Sabbath  class,  especially  the  fair  and  winning 
and  giddy  Alice. 

But  over  the  listening  face  a  dim  grey  shadow 
was  stealing,  on  the  pale  brow  cold  drops  were 
bieaking  forth.  Alice  put  up  her  hand,  slowly, 
feebly — felt  them.  "  It  is  coming,"  she  whispered, 
and  with  a  great  effort  drew  her  sleeping  child  to 
her  breast,  and  covered  her  with  kisses.     "Oh, 


The  Prodigal's  Return.  71 

my  Dot,  my  darling,  my  darling  1  I'm  going,  going 
for  ever  I "  she  cried.  The  child  half  opened  her 
eyes,  smiled  happily,  nestled  closer  and  slept 
on,  all  unconscious  of  the  struggle  in .  the  heaving 
breast  that  pillowed  her. 

For  a  fev^r  moments,  exhausted  with  the  effort 
she  had  made,  Alice  rested  her  face  upon  the 
child's.  Then  she  raised  it — greyer  and  sharper, 
but  with  the  listening  look  again  upon  it. 

Suddenly  a  bright  smile  lit  it.  "  Come !  Come ! 
Come ! "  she  repeated,  as  though  echoing  a  call 
she  heard.  "  Yes,  yes ;  '  I  will  arise,  and  go  to 
my  Father.'  Oh  yes !  oh  yes ! "  And  suiting 
the  action  to  the  word,  she  laid  Dot  tenderly 
down,  rose  from  the  bed,  sank  on  her  knees 
beside  it,  and  lifted  a  face  radiant  with  trust  and 
hope.  "  I  come,  I  come  ! "  she  gasped.  "  Lord, 
I  come ;  I  take  Thee  at  Thy  word.  And  Dot ! 
and  Dot ! "  she  murmured,  stretching  her  feebel 
arm  across  the  child.     "  And  Dot !  and  Dot !" 

And  then  her  head  sank  wearily  and  restfuUy, 
and  all  was  still. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

NO    NATJE. 

"\  T  THEN  Bess  returned,  only  a  few  red  dust- 
choked  embers  remained  of  the  glowing 
fire  she  had  left.  There  had  been  unwonted 
excitement  below,  ending  in  a  free  fight  and  a 
police  raid,  and  in  enjoyment  of  it  Bess  had  been 
drawn  into  forgetfulness  of  her  guests  and  of  her 
unspoken  resolution  to  keep  on  "  the  square," 
as  she  phrased  it.  There  was  nothing  in  the 
darkness  and  stillness  of  the  room  to  break  that 
forgetfulness,  and  too  heavy  with  drink  to  think 
of  striking  a  light  or  undressing,  she  groped  her 
way  stupidly  to  the  bed.  But  as  she  groped 
her  hand  touched  something  still  and  very  cold 
— something  which  thrilled  her  drink-numbed 
nerves,  and  cleared  her  clouded  brain  like  an 
electric  shock — a  face,  a  dead,   cold  face  I 


74  Dot 

Recoiling  in  a  sudden  panic  of  terror,  she 
flung  open  the  door,  and  shrieked  for  help  and 
light.  Half-a-dozen  half-dressed,  half-tipsy  crea- 
tures responded,  and  crowded  the  dark  room  and 
passage,  but  no  one  had  presence  of  mind  to 
strike  a  light  till  Mrs.  Wicks  herself  appeared, 
storming  and  fuming,  and  candle  in  hand. 

Its  light  shov/ed  Alice,  kneeling  still,  but  dead 
and  cold,  her  one  arm  stretched  across  the  child, 
her  white  face  as  peaceful  in  its  rest  as  the  sleep- 
ing baby  one  it  all  but  touched. 

A  strange,  a  sad,  a  pitiful  sight,  which  for  a 
moment  awed  the  rude,  hardened  beings  that 
gazed  on  it.  Then  broke  forth  question  and 
comment  from  some ;  others,  disappointed  of  the 
horrors  they  had  looked  for,  slunk  away. 

Bess  stood  like  one  stunned,  till  some  one 
remarked,  "  T'  choildt  '11  go  to  t'  workus."  She 
came  forward  then.  "  Nay,"  she  said,  "  not 
whoile  aw've  boite  and  soop  to  give  it,  and  aw'll 
starve  mysen  afore  it  shall  want." 

"  Whoi,  Bess,  what's  coom  to  thee  ?  "  was  the 
general  exclamation. 


No  Name.  75 

"  My  heart,  aw'm  thinkin',  as  wur  buried  i*  my 
Nelly's  grave,"  was  the  wonder-evoking  reply,  as 
she  took  up  the  child — v/hich,  disturbed  by  the 
light  and  voices,  half  woke  with  a  frightened  cry 
of  "Ma-ma" — and  pressed  her  closely  to  her 
breast. 

"  Tha'rt  full  o'  drink,  Bess,"  said  a  woman,  with 
a  laugh  that  sounded  fiendish  in  that  still,  solemn 
presence.  "  Tha'Ut  sing  another  song  i'  t'  mom- 
in'I" 

"  Tha  says ! "  said  Bess,  with  infinite  contempt. 
"  But  cooni !  theer's  bin  jawin'  enough.  Lift  the 
poor  lass  upo'  th'  bed.  Aw  promised  to  shelter 
her  till  00  found  a  better  whoam,  and  aw'U  be  as 
good  as  my  word." 

"  Oo's  found  it  now,  by  t'  look  of  oo's  face," 
said  a  woman,  as  they  laid  the  poor  limp  form 
upon  the  bed.  "  Oo  looks  so  restful  and  smoilin' 
loike." 

'*  Happen,"  said  Bess.  "  Eh,  poor  thing  !  but 
aw  little  thowt  00  wur  so  near't,  or  aw  wouldna 
ha'  left  her  for  a'  th'  drink  and  coompany  i'  th' 
world.     Aw  wouldn't  for  sure  I  "     The  shock  had 


76  Dot. 

thoroughly  sobered  her,  and  her  better  feelings 
were  in  force  again. 

"  Who  was  her,  Bess  ?  Aw've  seed  her  oft, 
but  CO  seemed  proud  and  skeared  loike,  and  aw 
let  her  be." 

"  Ay,  oo'd  seen  better  days,  poor  lass,  as  ony 
one  moight  see,  and  coom  through  shame  and 
sorrow,"  exclaimed  Bess. 

"  But  wheer  did  her  coom  from,  and  what  was 
her  name  ?  "  persisted  the  questioner. 

"  Aw  never  axed  her  !  "  Bess  gasped  in  dismay. 
"  Aw  never  axed  her !  Her  foak  wur  farmers, 
and  well-to-do,  oo  said,  and  aw  thowt — aw  thowt 
— but  it's  no  use  now,  t*  parish  mun  bury  her^  and 
aw'U  do  t'  best  aw  con  for  t'  choildt.  Dost  hear, 
poor  lass  ? "  she  said,  bending  over  the  un- 
conscious sleeper.  "  Dost  hear  ?  Aw'll  do  t' 
best  aw  con  for  t*  choildt.  Eh-h-h,  oo  conna 
hear;  but"  (and  she  looked  round  with  earnest 
solemnity)  "theer's  One  as  does,  lasses,  theer's 
One  as  does,  and  happen  He'll  tell  her ! " 

A  few  hours  more,  and  there  was  borne  to  a 
pauper's  grave  a  woman — name  unknown. 


CHAPTER    X. 

BE.SS  AND   DOT. 

13  ESS'S  regret  for  her  inadvertence  in  not 
"■-"^  ascertaining  the  name  of  the  poor  girl  she 
had  sheltered  was  superficial  and  short-lived. 
Reflection  convinced  her  that  were  the  once  fond 
parents  living,  as  she  fully  believed  them  to  be, 
and  made  aware  of  their  grand-child's  existence, 
they  would  at  one  claim  her ;  and  against  such  an 
issue  her  hungry  heart  protested  with  all  its  force. 
For  the  child — too  young  to  miss  her  mother 
much  or  long,  and  recognising  in  Bess's  a  familiar 
face  and  voice,  associated  in  her  little  memory 
with  food  and  comfort  and  kindness — clung  to 
and  caressed  her,  and  satisfied  her  starved-down, 
but  not  destroyed,  cravings  for  something  on 
which  to  expend  the  naturally  great  love-power 
of  her  heart,  almost  as  her  own  child  had  done. 


78  Dot 

And  if  the  lot  to  which  her  adopted  motherhood 
bound  the  little  one  was  mean  and  hard  and 
coarse,  it  saved  her  from  the  one  her  own  poor 
mother  had  dreaded  so — the  one  that  had  been 
Bess's  own,  compared  to  which  that  she  planned 
for  Dot  was  luxury  itself  in  her  eyes. 

So  disregarding  alike  the  scoffs  and  sneers  of 
her  associates,  and  the  self-denial  the  charge 
entailed,  she  took  the  Utile  nameless  waif  to  her 
hearth  and  her  heart,  and  did  her  best  by  her,  as 
she  had  vowed  to  her  dead  mother,  according  to 
her  lights,  clothing  her  warmly,  feeding  her  plenti- 
fully in  the  main, — though,  Hke  all  children  of  her 
class,  Dot  had  her  hard  times, — and  loving  her 
heartily. 

The  story  of  the  child's  origin  was  soon  lost  in 
the  constant  changes  of  that  migratory  household. 
By  the  time  little  Dot  Branker  could  hold  her  ovrn 
with  the  children  in  the  court,  she  was  universally 
thought  to  be  what  she  seemed — the  hawker's 
only  and  petted  child. 

Rough  and  hard,  and  uncongenial  as  a  child- 
hood spent  amidst  squalor  and  misery  must  be, 


Bess  and  Dot.  79 

the  little  one  was  not  unhappy.  Her  temper, 
though  high  and  passionate  when  roused,  was 
sweet  and  sunny,  and  use  made  it  little  hardship 
to  her  to  be  locked  for  hours  in  a  drtary  and  fire- 
less  room.  A  cheap  toy  or  two,  a  few  bits  of 
broken  china  and  bright-coloured  rags,  and  the  ^ 
hope  of  Bess's  return,  kept  her  amused  and 
happy.  When  "  mammy  "  was  at  home  she  had 
all  her  little  heart  had  learned  to  covet 

With  instinctive  faithfulness  to  an  ungiven 
charge,  Bess  sought  to  keep  her  as  much  as 
possible  apart  from  the  rough  little  wretches  with 
whom  the  court  was  thronged.  "  T'  poor  lass 
wudna  ha'  loiked  it,"  she  said  to  herself,  respect- 
ing that  and  many  another  point  affecting  Dot. 
But  of  course  a  time  came  when  the  lively,  active 
child  could  not  be  kept,  without  force  or  cruelty, 
in  one  narrow  room,  and  Bess's  rounds  covered 
far  too  much  ground  for  such  little  feet  to 
tread. 

So  Dot  had  to  take  her  chance  of  contamina- 
tion by  example.  She  suffered  wonderfully  little. 
Doubtless  the  blood  in  her  veins  told ;  the  heritage 


8o  Dot. 

of  generations  of  refinement  and  uprightness.  All 
untaught  and  untrained  as  she  was,  she  shrank 
from  coarseness  and  profanity,  and  queened  it 
over  her  rude  companions.  Her  speech  was 
strangely  pure,  so  far  as  tone  and  accent  went ; 
her  words  and  phrases  were  naturally  those  of  the 
prevailing  dialect.  She  had  inherited  her  mother's 
delicate  and  fatal  beauty — the  finely-cut  features, 
the  oval  face,  the  deep  grey  eyes  that  looked  black 
under  the  shadow  of  the  long  curled  lashes,  the 
dark  silky  hair,  were  such  as  coarse  clothing  and 
unkempt  squalor  might  impair,  but  not  destroy. 
She  was  slightly  built  and  small  for  her  years, 
but  healthy,  struggling  through  the  various  ail- 
ments of  childhood  with  the  least  possible  trouble 
to  herself  and  Bess. 

As  for  Bess,  she  was  a  happier  woman  than 
she  had  ever  been,  except  during  the  brief  life  of 
her  ill-fated  little  Nell — ay,  and  a  better  one  too. 
She  had  an  interest  in  life,  a  motive  for  well-doing. 
Something  better  than  mere  rest  and  shelter,  and 
coarse  conviviality,  awaited  her  at  the  end  of  a 
long  day's  toil — the  loving  light  of  bright  child- 


Bess  and  Dot.  8i 

eyes,  the  clinging  clasp  of  soft  child-arms,  the 
cheery  music  of  sweet  child-prattle  1 

The  necessity  of  lighting  a  fire  to  warm  the 
child,  and  the  danger  of  leaving  her  alone  with  it, 
— the  shock  of  Nell's  fate  having  left  Bess  more 
fearful  of  danger  to  her  darling  than  is  usual  with 
her  class, — weaned  her  in  a  great  measure  from 
the  kitchen,  with  its  debasing  excitements  and 
incitements;  and  the  thought  of  some  pleasure 
or  comfort  or  necessity  for  Dot  often  and  often 
turned  her  hesitating  steps  from  the  gin-shop's 
tempting  promise  of  "  heartening,"  when  she  was 
weary  with  way  or  weather,  or  disheartened  with 
fruitless  toil.  And  pitiful  memory  of  poor  Alice, 
intensified  by  the  remorse  she  ever  felt  at  having 
left  her  to  die  alone,  kept  a  soft  spot  in  her  heart 
towards  the  sick  and  the  destitute,  evidenced  in 
many  a  gift  bestowed  and  night's  shelter  given. 

She  taught  Dot,  therefore,  rather  by  example 
than  precept,  two  things — to  love  and  to  pity. 
Noble  lessons,  unlearned  by  many  a  young  heart 
whose  outward  surroundings  are  all  that  could  be 
desired. 

6 


82  Dot. 

Use  of  her  room  as  a  living  place  developed  the 
dormant  womanly  instincts  of  Bess's  breast.  She 
cleaned  it  now  and  then,  picked  up  some  cheap 
oddments  of  furniture,  and  actually  had  the 
window  glazed,  half  in  charity  to  a  sick  itinerant 
glazier,  half  in  solicitude  for  Dot's  comfort  and 
health.  As  Dot  grew  older  she  taught  her,  as 
best  she  could,  to  clean  and  cook  and  sew, 
reviving  for  her  benefit  the  almost  forgotten  lore 
of  her  serving-days.  Dot  was  an  apt  scholar,  her 
double  heritage  of  patrician  taste  and  yeoman 
industry  standing  her  in  good  stead ;  and  while 
yet  a  mite  of  a  child,  she  not  only  kept  the 
room  in  such  order  that  it  was  like  an  oasis 
in  the  squalor  around,  but  would  have  a 
bright  fire  and  the  kettle  singing  on  Bess's 
return. 

This  was  Dot's  only  education.  Her  days  were 
spent,  when  the  weather  was  fair,  playing  in  the 
court,  or  rambling  about  the  adjacent  streets,  or, 
as  a  great  treat,  going  with  Bess  upon  her  rounds 
— her  evenings  in  sitting,  happy  in  "  mother's  " 
companionship,  on  the  doorstep  or  by  the  fireside. 


Bess  and  Dot.  %2> 

Sundays  were  her  red-letter  days,  because  mother 
was  always  at  home  all  da}'  ;  and  in  sunny 
weather  they  often  brought  the  greatest  delight 
of  her  life — a  ramble  in  the  park,  or,  better  still, 
a  ride  outside  a  'bus  into  the  country,  which  to 
Dot  seemed  paradise. 

She  never  dreamed  she  was  other  than  Bess's 
child.  Mrs.  Wicks  was  dead,  and  Bess  could 
never  find  in  her  heart  to  tell  her,  though  her 
conscience  sometimes  smote  her  when  she  thought 
of  the  true  mother,  dead  and  unknown  to  the 
child  she  had  so  fondly  loved.  "  Aw  sh'dna  ha' 
loiked  my  Nell  to  ha'  growed  up  and  knowed 
nowt  o'  me,  if  aw'd  doied  i'stead  o'  her,"  she 
would  say  to  herself  as  she  thought  of  this — she 
often  did  think  of  it  in  these  days  of  her  anxious 
love  and  solicitude  for  her  foster-child.  If  Dot 
was  to  her  what  her  own  moon-faced,  blue-eyed, 
buried  baby  might  have  become,  she  was  not 
what  she  was,  and  nothing  could  oust  her  Nelly 
from  her  memorial  shrine  in  her  mother's  faithful 
heart.  But  then  she  would  tell  herself  that  Dot 
was  too   young    to   understand    the   bitter  truth 


84  Dot, 

which  one  day  she  must  tell  her,  and  that  it  was 
better  to  wait  a  bit.  And  ever  the  task,  like  all 
postponed  duties,  grew  to  seem  harder  and  less 
imperative. 


CHAPTER    XI. 

WHAT  ANOTHER  DECEMBER  BROUGHT. 

OO  years  passed  on.  Baby  Dot  had  become 
a  slim,  thin,  sallow-cheeked  child  of  ten  or 
eleven  ;  Bess, — what  with  toil  and  exposure,  and 
her  evil  habit,  kept  in  bounds,  but  far  from 
abandoned, — a  woman  old  before  her  time.  They 
still  lived  in  the  old  room,  furnished  with  some 
degree  of  comfort  now — the  time,  of  which  they 
had  talked  by  the  hour,  when  they  would  be  able 
to  go  and  live  in  one  of  the  pretty  cottages  which 
so  took  Dot's  fancy  in  the  suburban  villages  they 
visited  in  their  Sunday  rides  (it  was  curious  how 
hereditary  instincts  asserted  themselves  in  the 
child,  in  her  yearnings  for  pure  air  and  country 
pursuits  and  pleasures),  and  start  a  little  shop 
with  Bess's  savings,  and  rear  ducks  and  chickens 
for  sale,  never  came.     Bess  had  the  easy-going 


86  Dot. 

unthrift  of  her  class — when  money  was  plentiful 
she  spent  it  lavishly,  both  upon  herself  and 
others  ;  and  the  hard  times,  either  of  sickness  or 
of  bad  trade,  which  from  time  to  time  overtook 
them,  were  seldom  adequately  provided  for. 

So  in  their  cheery  and  loving  content  with  each 
other  and  their  lot,  and  their  ignorance  of  better 
things,  Bess  and  Dot  rubbed  on  from  day  to  day, 
and  year  to  year,  taking  the  rough  with  the 
smooth,  making  the  best  of  things,  and  feeding  on 
hopes  destined  never  to  be  realised.  For  a  shock 
— sudden  and  terrible,  and  unexpected  as  an 
earthquake's — came  upon  them,  and  changed  the 
whole  face  of  their  lives. 

It  came  upon  them  on  a  stormy  December  day, 
just  such  an  one  as  gave  Dot  to  Bess,  as  many  and 
many  a  time  Bess  remembered,  as  she  watched 
the  little,  light  figure  trip  up  the  steps  and  knock 
at  the  doors,  so  saving  her  many  a  useless  strain 
of  her  poor  rheumatic  limbs.  Bess  had  been 
ailing  of  late  :  a  heavy  cold,  caught  in  an  early 
November  fog,  had  left  her  weak  and  with  a 
harassing    cough,    besides  aggravating  the  rheu- 


iiilwiiiiiiTi 


What  another  December  brought.    87 

matism  from  which  she  had  long  suffered.  It  had 
become  almost  a  habit  for  Dot  to  accompany  her  ; 
her  help,  and  still  more,  her  bright  loving  com- 
panionship cheered  Bess  through  many  a  long 
hour  of  pain  and  weariness,  and  saved  her  from 
too  frequent  recourse  to  her  false  friend — the 
spirit  bottle. 

It  was  a  mark  of  the  loyalty  of  the  woman's 
nature  that,  remembering  Alice's  horror  of  them, 
Bess  had  never  offered  or  suffered  Dot  to  touch 
intoxicants,  even  teaching  her  to  regard  them  as 
bad  friends,  and  rarely  indulging  in  them  in  her 
presence.  Their  effects  upon  herself,  too  often 
apparent  in  coarsened  behaviour,  stupidity,  and 
heavy  sleep,  though  never  in  harshness,  com- 
mended such  teaching  to  the  child,  who,  besides, 
was  shrewd  enough  to  see  in  them  the  bar  to  the 
fulfilment  of  their  life-dream. 

Bess  was  reaping  the  sure  reward,  promised  by 
lips  that  cannot  deceive,  to  such  as  show  kindness 
to  those  that  "cannot  repay."  But  for  the  board 
spread,  and  the  shelter  offered  to  the  homeless  and 
destitute  stranger  that  night  so  long  ago    Bess, 


88  Dot. 

confirmed  in  her  evil  habits,  might,  ere  then,  have 
become  a  wretched,  degraded  creature,  or  lain  in 
a  drunkard's  grave — who  can  tell  ? 

Perhaps  some  such  thoughts,  in  crude  and 
untaught  guise,  passed  through  Bess's  mind  as 
she  watched  Dot  with  tear-dimmed  eyes  that  day, 
murmuring  as  she  did  so  many  and  many  a  time, 
"  My  little  blessin'  1  It  mun  be  true  what  yon 
poor  dead  lass  said — summat  better  nor  luck  nor 
weather  sent  me  in  early  yon  day." 

"We  can  go  home  now,  mother,"  said  Dot, 
turning,  bright-eyed  and  jubilant,  from  a  door 
where  a  successful  sale  had  been  effected.  "  The 
kippers  and  baddies  will  be  none  the  worse  by 
to-morrow,  and  that  little  cut  o'  cod  '11  just  make 
us  a  nice  broil  for  tea,  and  help  ye  to  eat  a  bit — 
won't  it,  mother  ?  " 

"  Always  thinkin'  o'  me,"  answered  Bess  fondly. 
"  Ay,  my  blessin*,  we'll  go  whoam.  Aw'm  chilled 
to  th'  heart,  and  every  bone  o'  my  body  werches." 

"  Never  mind,  mother,  we'll  soon  have  a  good 
fire,  and  a  nice  hot  cup  o'  tea  '11  set  ye  to  rights. 
Ugh-gh-gh  ! " — with   an   irrepressible   shiver,   as 


What  another  Decembe     broztght.     89 

they  turned  a  corner  and  faced  the  blast.  "  But 
won't  it  be  cosy  ?  Here's  a  'bus  just  handy, 
mother.  You  jump  in  with  th'  baskets,  and  I'll 
race  ye  for  first.  It'll  warm  me ; "  and  without 
waiting  for  consent  Dot  started  off,  making  such 
good  use  of  her  feet  that  she  kept  the  'bus  in 
sight  a  great  part  of  the  way,  then  making  a  short 
cut,  was  in  time  to  help  Bess  and  the  baskets  out. 

"  Cheer  up,  mother,  we'll  be  home  in  a  jiffey 
now,"  she  panted.  "  The  fire  '11  be  in,  I'm  think- 
ing, and  the  kettle  '11  boil  in  no  time.  Won't  a 
cup  o'  hot  tea  be  nice  and  warmin'  ?  " 

"  Ay,"  answered  Bess,  rather  drearily,  looking 
longingly  at  the  door  of  a  vault,  from  which  the 
reek  of  spirits  came  temptingly.  Had  she  been 
alone  she  would  have  entered  without  hesitation. 
Perhaps  thought  of  that  pitfall  in  the  way  had 
given  wings  to  Dot's  feet.  If  so,  she  had  her 
reward.  Bess  passed  on.  "  Ay,  lass,  it  will,"  she 
repeated.  "  And  aw  never  felt  moor  i'  want  o'  a 
bit  o'  coomfort  i'  my  loife." 

"Oh!  we'll  have  it,  mother,"  said  Dot  gleefully. 
"  We've  plenty  of  coals  and  tea,  and  a  bit  o'  fish 


90  Dot, 

fit  for  the  Queen,  and  we'll  get  a  fresh  loaf  and 
a  bit  of  butter  and  sugar  as  we  pass — why,  we 
shall  have  quite  a  feast,"  and  she  danced  gaily 
along,  oblivious  of  wet  and  cold  and  fatigue,  Bess 
following  painfully,  but  with  brightened  face. 

Alas,  poor  Dot  I  poor  Bess  1  there  was  neither 
feast  nor  comfort  for  you  that  night. 

They  reached  home  at  last,  and  paused  in  the 
passage  to  shake  off  the  wet  from  their  dripping 
clothes,  Bess  coughing  badly.  At  that  moment  a 
boy,  a  stranger  to  Dot  and  Bess,  came  down  the 
stairs.  He  was  tall  and  thin,  ragged,  and  bare- 
foot, but  his  face  was  open  and  pleasant — the 
blue  eyes  that  gleamed  from  under  a  mighty 
shock  of  dingy  fair  hair  were  singularly  clear  and 
keen,  yet  kindly  in  their  expression. 

As  he  passed  them  Bess  took  up  her  baskets 
with  a  groan.  "  Aw  wish  aw  wur  at  top.  Nay, 
my  lass,"  as  Dot  seized  one ;  "  it's  too  heavy  for 
thy  little  arms.  Better  strain  my  owd  stiff  back 
than  thy  young  tender  un." 

"  Let  me  carry  the  baskets  up  for  you,  mistress," 
said  the  boy,  coming  forward  with  eager  kindli- 


What  another  December  brought.     91 

ness.  "  They'll  be  nothin'  to  me.  I'm  strong  and 
used  to  carrying  weights."  He  was  from  the 
south,  and  his  speech  sounded  strangely  soft  and 
pleasant  in  Dot's  ears. 

■  "Tha  doesna  look  it,"  said  Bess.  "But  thank 
ye  koindly.  Aw'm  dead  beat,  and  that's  a  fac', 
and  aw'U  remember  thee.  Tha  run  on,  Dot,  and 
oppen  th'  door." 

Key  in  hand,  Dot  started  off.  There  was  a 
delay  in  the  transfer  of  the  baskets,  owing  to  the 
fringe  of  Bess's  shawl  having  become  entangled  in 
the  wicker-work,  and  light-heeled  Dot  had  reached 
the  landing  before  it  was  made.  There  she 
stopped  suddenly,  hardly  able  to  believe  her 
eyes.  The  door  of  their  room,  left  locked  in 
the  morning,  stood  ajar,  and  the  glow  of  2 
blazing  fire  came  through  the  aperture  into  the 
dark  passage,  and  danced  and  flickered  on  the 
opposite  wall. 

What  could  it  mean  ?  Fire  !  With  the  thought 
Dot  sprang  forward  and  looked  eagerly  in.  She 
came  back  quickly,  with  a  scared  and  puzzled  face. 
"  Mother ! "  she  cried,  meeting  Bess  and  her  at- 


92  Dot. 

tendant,  "  there's  a  man  in  our  room,  a-sitting  by 
the  fire,  and  such  a  fire.      Look  ! " 

"  A  mon  i'  our  room  !  "  ejaculated  Bess. 
"Well,   aw  never.     But  dunno  thee  be  frit,  my 

lass,  aw'll  shunt  him,  the  imperent "  and  she 

advanced  with  bellicose  aspect,  Dot  following 
timidly  in  her  wake. 

But  Bess's  look  changed  utterly  as  her  eyes  fell 
on  the  man  who  sat  gloating  over  the  fire  with 
evident  enjoyment.  He  was  a  big  ill-looking 
fellow,  with  grizzled,  sandy  hair,  retreating  brows, 
deep-set  eyes,  and  heavy  under-shot  jaw.  He 
looked  up  at  her  with  a  sardonic  grin.  "Well, 
Bess,  aw've  coomed  back,"  he  said. 

Bess  sank  upon  the  nearest  seat.  "Tha's — 
coomed — back  I "  she  gasped,  her  face  deadly  pale 
under  its  weather  stains. 

"  Ay,  aw've  coomed  back,"  he  said.  "  Tha 
doesna  seem  so  glad  to  see  me  as  a  good  woife 
should  be." 

"  Aw'd  liefer  ha'  seen  th'  devil  himsen,  and  tha 
knows  it,"  said  Bess,  rallying.  "  But  list  thee, 
Sam  Branker,  woife  o'  thoine  aw  may  be,  by  t* 


What  another  December  brought,     93 

law  as  poor  foak  conna  break,  but  tak'  thee  back 
to  bed  and  board  aw  will  na." 

"  Aw  never  axed  thee,"  he  said,  with  another 
grin,  that  changed  into  a  savage  scowl  as  he 
went  on.  "  Aw  coomed,  and  aw  mean  to  stand 
o'  my  roights,  aw  tell  thee,  and  tha's  best  tak'  it 
quoiet." 

A  helpless  feeling  came  over  Bess.  She  was 
sick  and  worn  out,  and  stunned  with  the  sudden- 
ness of  the  blow.  "  Tha's  gettin'  things  rare  and 
coomfortable,"  he  said,  somewhat  mollified  by  her 
silence,  and  glancing  round  approvingly.  Then 
seeming  for  the  first  time  to  see  Dot  as  she 
cowered  close  to  Bess,  he  pointed  to  her. 
"  Who's  yon  ?  "  he  questioned  meaningly,  "  who's 
yon,  I  ax  ?  " 

The  full  magnitude  of  the  trouble  that  had 
come  upon  her  burst  upon  Bess  as  she  looked 
down  upon  poor  Dot's  frightened,  appealing  face, 
"  Oh,  my  blessin',  my  blessin'  1 "  she  sobbed, 
catching  her  to  her  breast,  "  aw  wouldna  ha* 
cared  but  for  thee ! " 

"  Tha'rt  a  noice  un  I "   said   Sam,   in  a  tone 


94  Dot. 

which  drove  honest  Bess  to  indignant  self-vindi- 
cation. "  Oo's  none  o'  moine,"  she  said,  "  though 
aw  loove  her  as  if  oo  were.  Oo's  th'  choild  o'  a 
poor  lass  who  doied  i'  yon  bed  wlien  oo  was  a 
babby." 

"  Loikely  story,"  interrupted  Sam.  "  Well,  aw 
tell  thee,  if  tha  want'st  to  keep  a  whole  skin  o'  her 
back,  tha'dst  best  behave  thysen  to  me.  So  get 
some  soopper,  and  let's  be  coomfortable — aw'll 
noan  quarrel  if  tha  doesna." 

There  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  obey. 


CHAPTER    XII. 

** MOTHER   NO   MOTHER.^ 

"V  T  O ;  there  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  comply. 
^  ^     Bess   knew   herself  to   be   helpless;   and, 
thoroughly  cowed  by  the  threat  of  cruelty  to  Dot, 
set  about  getting  the  tea,  Dot  following  her  move- ' 
ments  with  timid  helpfulness. 

The  anticipated  feast  was  cooked,  and  set  upon 
the  table,  but  Sam,  who  took  the  dainty  fish  to 
his  share,  alone  did  justice  to  it.  He  ate  like 
a  famished  wolf;  but  Bess  was  too  sick  at  heart, 
Dot  too  choked  with  indignation  and  fear,  to  eat 
— a  fact  that  did  not  at  all  discompose  the  in- 
truder, or,  indeed,  attract  his  notice. 

His  meal  finished,  he  drew  his  chair  right  in 
front  of  the  fire,  and  produced  a  stumpy  clay  pipe. 
"  Now,  Bess,  send  fur  soom  baccy,  and  a  quart  o' 
gin,  and  we'n  be  coomfortable,"  he  commanded. 


96  Dot. 

"Av/ll  go  mysen,"  answered  Bess,  sullenly; 
"  the  choild's  noan  used  to  sich  arrants." 

"Time  oo  wur  then.  It's  ill  keepin'  dogs  and 
barkin'  onesen ;  and  tha  '11  noan  do  it  no  more," 
snapped  Sam,  with  returning  ill-humour 

"  I'll  go,  mother,"  said  Dot  beseechingly  ;  "  I'd 
rather  go  than  be  left  with  him"  she  added  in  a 
lower  tone.  And  seeing  Sam  glowering  angrily 
at  them,  Bess  let  her  go. 

So  poor  Dot  went  out  into  the  cold  and  storm, 
which  yet  had  less  terror  for  her  than  the  glare  of 
the  hated  and  evil  place  which  she  had  never 
before  entered.  Alas  !  alas  !  its  evil  sights  and 
sounds  were  henceforth  to  be  too  familiar  to  her. 

She  did  her  errand  quickly,  for  the  rain  was 
falling  in  icy  sheets,  and  having,  as  usual,  cleared 
away  the  supper  things,  she  cowered  down  to 
Bess's  side,  as  much  as  possible  out  of  sight 
of  the  bleared  eyes  that  had  glared  at  her  so 
savagely.  Poor  little  thing !  her  mind  was  in  a 
whirl,  her  little  heart  ready  to  burst  with  pain 
and  terror.  That  dreadful  man  going  to  stay 
there  always — to  eat  up  mother's  fish  and  drink 


''Mother  no  Mother:*  97 

up  mother's  money;  to  make  mother  drink  too, 
perhaps — for  Bess  had  not  dared,  probably  had 
not  wished  in  her  downheartedness,  to  refuse  Sam's 
gracious  offer  of  a  share  of  the  liquor  bought 
with  her  own  hard  earnings,  and  was  already 
talking  noisily  under  its  influence.  And  mother 
not  her  mother!  she  had  said  so — that  was  the 
strangest,  bitterest  thought  of  all,  and  sent  a 
chill  of  desolation  to  the  loving  little  heart.  What 
ever  would  life — life  that  had  been  so  pleasant — 
be  like,  she  wondered  drearily,  under  such  new 
and  strange  conditions  ? 

Harder  and  darker  and  sadder  than  you  can 
even  imagine,  poor  little  rudely  but  tenderly 
nurtured  child  !  But  courage,  little  Dot !  A  help- 
less, dying  hand  laid  you,  an  unconscious  babe,  in 
the  tender  and  never-failing  arms  of  One  strong 
to  protect,  faithful  to  provide,  mighty  to  save. 
They,  unseen,  unfelt,  unknown,  ever  are  around 
and  beneath  you ;  and  their  clasp  is  safety,  for 
the  love  that  nerves  them  is  self-existent,  al- 
mighty, and  everlasting! 

The   night  wore  on;  the  bottle  was  emptied 

7 


98  Dot, 

without  much  aid  from  Bess,  whose  appetite  had 
been  restrained  by  the  consciousness  of  the  still, 
sorrowful  little  presence  at  her  side,  and  by 
appealing  pulls  at  her  gown.  Therefore,  when 
Sam  staggered  from  beside  the  empty  bottle  and 
dying  fire,  and  flung  himself  upon  the  bed,  she 
was  quite  in  possession  of  her  senses. 

A  heavy  snore  rising  almost  as  the  drunken 
head  touched  the  pillow  set  Dot  free  to  move  and 
speak.  "  Oh,  mother !  is  it  true  ?  is  it  true  ?  " 
she  questioned  in  pitiful  appeal. 

"  Ay,  my  lass,  it's  true,  worse  luck ! "  answered 
Bess  bitterly.  "  Aw  married  him  when  aw  wur 
a  yoong  fou'." 

"  I  know — I  don't  mean  that.  But,  oh,  mother!" 
with  a  burst  of  tears,  "is  yon  true  what  tha 
saidst,  that — that  I'm  no  child  o'  thine  ?  " 

Bess  clasped  her  to  her  breast,  and  sought  to 
soothe  her  with  kisses  and  tender  words.  "  But 
is  it  ?  oh  !  is  it  ?  "  persisted  Dot. 

"Ay,  that's  true  too,"  Bess  answered  reluct- 
antly. "  But  dunno  thee  tak'  on  loike  this,  my 
darlin' ;  it  mak's  no  diller — aw  couldna  loov  thee 


''Mother  no  Mother^  99 

moor  if  tha  wur.  It  mak's  no  difTer,  Dot,"  she 
repeated  anxiously. 

"I  suppose — not,"  Dot  answered  slowly.  "But 
— it  feels  strange  and  lonely  like.  Who  was — 
my  mother,  then?"  she  asked,  after  a  pause.. 

"That  aw  conna  tell  thee,  my  lass;  but  wait 
till  aw  rake  t'  foire  together ;  tha'rt  shiverin'. 
Theer,  sit  thee  down  on  t'  cricket  i'  front,  and 
aw'U  tell  thee  how  thou  cam'st  to  be  t'  choild  o' 
my  heart  and  t'  blessin'  o'  my  loife,  as  tha  art, 
Dot,  as  tha  art." 

We  are  familiar  with  the  story  to  which  Dot 
listened  with  tear-glistening  eyes  and  suspended 
breath.  When  it  was  finished  she  flung  herself 
upon  Bess's  neck.  "  I'll  love  thee  more  than  ever 
now,"  she  sobbed.  "  Tha'st  been  so  good,  so 
good!" 

"  Aw've  been  more  nor  paid,  my  blessin',  more 
nor  paid,"  said  Bess,  stroking  the  dark  head 
fondly.  "But  aw  wish  to-neet" — she  paused 
— "  ay,  aw  do — that  aw  knew  thi  mother's  foak. 
If  yon  leads  me  t'  loife  00  used  to  du,  aw'd  gi' 
thee   oop    to  save    thee   from   it,   aw  'ud,    tho'   it 


loo  Dot. 

'ud  be   loike  tearin*  out   my   very   heart   to  du 
it!" 

"  But  I  wouldn't  go,  mother,"  said  Dot,  clinging 
to  her — "  no,  not  if  it  was  to  live  in  the  Queen's 
palace  ! " 

"Eh-h-h,  my  lass,  tha  doesna  know,  tha 
doesna  know  1 "  groaned  Bess,  relapsing  into 
thought.  "If  aw  knowed  but  t'  name  o'  t'  place 
00  coom  from,"  she  said,  after  a  silence.  "  Aw'm 
welley  sure  oo  said  oo's  name  wur  Alice.  Aw 
didna  moind  it  at  first,  but  t'  neet  oo  wur  buried, 
as  I  sot  here  wi'  thee  i'  my  lap,  a-thinkin*  over  all 
oo'd  said,  it  coom  to  me  natural,  as  it  wur,  that 
oo'd  called  ooself  Alice,  by  chance  loike,  i'  telling 
her  tale,  and  aw  don't  know  whoi  it  should  if 
00  didna.  And  oo  said  oo's  mother's  name  wur 
Dor-ror-thy,  loike  thoine  as  wur  named  for  her. 
If  aw  did  but  know  t'  place,  now." 

"  Never  mind,  mother.  I'd  rather  be  your 
child  nor  the  Queen's ! "  said  Dot,  again  using  the 
ne  plus  ultra  of  her  imagination. 

"  Bless  thee ! "  ejaculated  Bess.  "  But  aw'm 
feart  yon  '11  mak'  me  wicked  and  bad.  Dot,  and 


''Mother  no  Mot/ier"  loi 

thee  too,  m'appen.  Well,  theer's  no  help  for  't, 
unless  Him  as  is  above  '11  tak*  notice  on  us.  Thi 
poor  mother  thowt  He'd  browt  me  to  her,  and 
aw've  mony  a  toime  thowt  as  He  browt  thee  to 
me,  my  blessin*  1 "  Then  with  a  sudden  thought, 
"Si'  thee.  Dot,  to  yon  jar  on  t'  shelf,  wheer  t' 
money  is.  Reach  it  down ;  theer's  that  in  it  tha'U 
loike  to  see." 

Dot  obeyed.  Bess  took,  fair  and  bright  from 
out  its  many  dust-soiled  wrappings,  the  cripple's 
painted  card.  "Aw  took  it  out  o*  thi  poor 
mother's  dead  fingers,"  she  explained. 

"  Oh,  how  pretty ! "  exclaimed  Dot,  taking  it 
reverently.     "  What's  on  it,  mother  ?  " 

"  Texes." 

"  What's  texes  ?  "  asked  Dot,  still  contemplating 
the  card. 

"  Words  out  o*  th*  good  book  as  parsons  read  i' 
church,  my  lass." 

Dot  looked  up  with  earnest,  puzzled  eyes,  but 
Bess  had  no  further  explanation  to  give.  "  I'd 
like  to  know  *em,"  she  said  wistfully.  "  Dost 
mind  'em,  mother  ?  * 


I02  Dot. 

"  Nay,  my  lass,  aw  conna  say  aw  do,  though 
Sail  Weeks  read  'em  cop — oo  wur  a  good 
scholard,  oo  wur.  But  theer's  soommat  about 
*Coom  to  Me,'  and  'rest,'  and  'save  th'  lost.' 
And  't  seemed  to  me  as  if  Him  as  is  above 
moight  ha'  sent  a  h'angel  down  wi'  'em  to  that 
poor  lost  lass — theer  wur  sich  a  smoile  and  look 
o'  rest  o'  th'  poor  dead  face  as  had  been  so  sad  1' 
loife." 

"  Perhaps  He  did,  mother,"  said  Dot,  with  the 
simple  unreasoning  faith  of  childhood.  "  Eh,  but 
He  must  be  rare  good  and  kind.  I  wish  I  could 
read  'em,  mother  I     I  wish  I  could  read  'em  I " 

Bess  felt  a  twinge  of  conscience,  and  answered 
a  little  tartly  in  consequence.  "Well,  if  tha 
hadstna  been  so  sharp  i'  keepin*  out  o'  t'  way  o* 
they  new  school  chaps,  tha'dst  ha'  could  by  now," 
she  said,  though  she  had  aided  and  abetted  Dot 
in  so  doing.  "  But  coom,  my  lass,  it's  toime  tha 
wur  asleep.  Tha'dst  best  keep  t'  card  thysen, 
now;  tha'll  happen  foind  soom  one  as'U  read  it 
thee,  and  yon  ud  tear  it  oop  i'  spoite  as  lief  as 
look  at  it." 


*' Mother  no  Mother''  103 

Dot  and  Bess  slept  on  the  floor  that  night. 
But  the  child's  sleep  was  sweet,  and  full  of 
strange  fair  dreams,  in  which  a  face,  a  form,  a 
presence,  brighter  and  lovelier  than  any  she  had 
gazed  on  with  wonder  and  delight  in  the  print- 
shop  windows,  seemed  to  hover  over  her  as  she 
lay,  with  outstretched  arms,  and  eyes  of  love,  and 
sweet-voiced  lips  which  whispered,  "  Come  to 
Me  " — dreams  which  left  an  indelible  impression 
on  her  mind. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

DOTS  FANCIES. 

'  I  "HAT  dark  December  day  ushered  in,  as 
well  may  be  supposed,  a  new  and  dreary 
phase  of  Dot's  life. 

Sam  was  as  good  as  his  word,  and  stood  upon 
his  rights — which  were,  as  he  interpreted  them, 
to  appropriate  the  bulk  of  Bess's  earnings,  the 
best  of  the  food,  and  the  warmest  of  the  fire, 
and  to  exact  slavish  service  from  Bess  and  Dot. 
The  smallest  opposition  roused  his  usually  surly 
temper  to  savage  fury.  Resentful,  disheartened, 
and  wretched,  Bess  was  little  likely  to  submit 
patiently.  Quarrels,  even  to  blows,  were  frequent  ; 
but  Sam  soon  learned  that  those  that  fell  on  Dot 
hurt  Bess  most,  and  she  suffered  accordingly. 

Cold  and  hunger  followed  in  the  train  of 
drunkenness  and  extravagance.     Bess's  earnings, 


io6  Dot. 

at  their  best,  could  not  have  borne  the  strain 
made  upon  them  for  the  support  of  the  idle, 
drunken  fellow,  who  never  did  a  hand's  turn  of 
work,  and  as  long  as  his  wants  were  supplied  did 
not  care  to  run  the  risk  of  dishonesty  ;  and,  as 
we  have  said,  Bess  was  no  longer  the  woman  she 
had  been.  And  alas  !  alas  !  as  things  grew  worse 
and  worse,  and  one  by  one  the  decencies  of  her 
room  disappeared,  and  Dot  grew  thinner  and 
raggeder,  and  more  woe-begone,  and  trade,  owing 
to  her  straitened  capital,  became  less  and  less 
profitable,  Bess  turned  to  the  bad  friend  that  was 
still  the  best  she  knew  of,  bringing  as  it  did 
temporary  exhilaration,  temporary  forgetfulness 
of  her  own  and  Dot's  miseries. 

A  year — whose  bitter  experiences  of  abuse  and 
want  and  sorrow  of  heart  can  have  no  record — 
passed.  Dot  had  for  some  months  sold  Hghts  and 
papers  in  the  streets,  Sam  having  declared  it 
waste  of  time  for  her  to  go  dragging  after  Bess, 
who  could  earn  as  much  without  her.  That  was 
possibly  true ;  but,  alas  !  she  could  also  spend 
more;  and  Dot  crept  wearily  home  at  nightfall, 


Dot's  Fancies.  107 

not  to  the  warm  fire,  and  comfortable  tea,  and 
loving  looks  that  had  once  cheered  her  through 
days  of  cold  and  loneliness,  but  to  a  room  reduced 
to  its  old  wretchedness  :  a  grudged  and  stinted 
meal,  sometimes  not  that,  but  cruel  blows,  and, 
bitterest  element  of  all  to  Dot,  a  stupefied  or 
rowdy  mother. 

Poor  Bess  had  not  fallen  without  a  struggle, 
but  her  pain  and  cold  and  misery  were  almost 
more  than  could  be  borne  unaided,  and  when 
to  these  were  added  remorse  for  her  part  in 
Dot's  sufferings,  the  burden  of  her  sober  hours 
became  intolerable.  She  was  never  consciously 
harsh,  much  less  cruel,  to  Dot,  but  the  child, 
made  sensitive  by  nature  and  past  tenderness, 
could  not  but  suffer  from  the  effects  of  a  temper 
roughened  by  drink  or  depressed  by  reaction. 

Poor  little  Dot !  Sadly  changed  was  she  from 
the  bright-eyed  little  lassie  that  had  tripped  so 
cheerily  through  the  rain  that  dull  December  day 
at  the  time  we  took  up  our  story.  Her  delicate 
features  were  pinched  and  sharpened,  her  cheeks 
hollow,  her  great  grey  eyes,  gleaming  wistfully 


io8  Dot 

out  beneath  an  overhanging  mass  of  dark,  tangled 
hair,  gave  a  weird,  woe-begone  look  to  her  face. 
Her  clothes  were  in  rags,  but  as  yet  she  was 
roughly  shod.  Too  often  she  bore  the  marks  of 
blows. 

She  had  a  fixed  sum — one  shilling — to  make 
every  day ;  to  return  without  it  was  always  the 
signal  for  a  quarrel  between  Bess  and  Sam.  She 
had  a  good  spirit,  and  had  always  been  able  to 
hold  her  own  with  the  children  of  the  court ;  but 
it  was  hard  work  to  do  so  with  her  fellow  street- 
vendors,  many  of  them  strong,  rough  boys,  who 
drove  her  from  coveted  vantage-posts,  and  some- 
times jostled,  and  even  robbed  her  of  pence  or 
wares;  and  on  the  days  that  Bess  could  not 
secretly  help  her  with  a  start  of  pence  she  was 
rarely  able  to  earn  her  tyrant's  fee. 

Amid  all  these  sorrows  Dot  had  but  one  com- 
fort, beyond  the  brief  gleams  of  mother-love 
enjoyed  when  Bess  was  herself  and  Sam  absent. 
And  that  was  to  fancy — as  she  did  in  her  saddest 
hours,  when  lying  cold  and  hungry,  or  sick  and 
sad,  or  bruised  and  beaten,  on  her  heap  of  straw 


Dot's  Fancies.  109 

in  the  corner  with  Bess  and  Sam,  quiet  at  last, 
stretched  out  in  drunken  stupor — to  fancy  that 
"Him  as  was  above"  might  send  a  beautiful 
angel,  such  as  she  had  seen  in  that  fair,  unforgotten 
dream,  to  comfort  and  carry  her  away  in  its  kind 
outstretched  arms,  whither  she  knew  not,  but  away 
— away  from  her  pain  and  misery,  as  she  loved  to 
fancy  He  had  done  to  her  poor  dead  mother.  To 
fancy — of  course  it  could  not  be  I  Bess  said  it 
could  not  now;  and  the  learned  cobbler  in  the 
room  below,  who  read  the  papers  every  day,  and 
had  big  books  upon  his  shelf, — whom  hungry 
longing  had  one  day  given  her  courage  to  ask  to 
read  her  the  words  upon  her  card, — had  growled  : 
"  All  a  fool's  fancy,  all  a  fool's  fancy,  lass  1 " 
as,  having  done  so,  he  tossed  it  back.  Yes,  a 
fancy  ;  of  course  she  knew  it ;  but  it  was  dear  and 
soothing  to  her  little  desolate  heart,  as  were  the 
strange,  sweet  words, — by  whom  spoken,  of  what 
meaning  she  could  not  tell,  yet  which  somehow 
seemed  always  to  send  so  sweet  and  warm  a  glow 
through  her, — "Come  unto  Me,  all  ye  that  are 
weary,  and  I  will  give  you  rest." 


I  lo  Dot, 

"Come  unto  Me,"  "Come  unto  Me,  all  ye  that 
are  weary,"  she  would  repeat  over  and  over. 
"  Somebody  must  ha'  said  it — it  sounds  so  kind 
and  real-like.  Somebody  good  and  lovin'  and 
strong,  too,  I'm  thinkin'  1 " 

Yes,  little  Dot,  Somebody  had  said  it.  Some- 
body good  and  loving  and  strong — to  whom 
the  helpless  "  feeling  after "  of  thy  little  hungry, 
untaught  heart  was  a  more  prevailing  prayer 
than  formal  supplications  borne  by  choral  swell 
of  many  voices  through  stately  pillared  aisles; 
and  its  answer  was  sure. 

Towards  the  close  of  one  bleak,  dreary  day, 
Dot  turned,  bitter-hearted,  from  a  hopeless 
struggle  to  be  first  with  her  papers  on  a  'bus-step, 
and,  not  minded  to  let  the  tears  she  could  not 
repress,  as  she  saw  paper  after  paper  handed  in, 
be  mocked  at  by  her  rival,  darted  across  the  wide 
street.  She  was  yet  wiping  away  fast-flowing 
tears  when  she  felt  a  little  cold  hand  on  her  arm, 
and,  looking  up,  saw  beside  her  a  pale,  fragile- 
looking  little  lad,  a  paper-seller  like  herself,  but 
even  more  ragged,  and  barefoot.     He  was  panting 


Dot's  Fancies.  iii 

with  the  haste  he  had  made.  "I  was  feart  I 
sh'dn't  catch  ye,"  he  g.sped.  "Tha  run  so 
quick,  and  they  lurries  takes  such  a  time  to  pass, 
and  tha  dropped  three  o'  thy  pappers  i'  th' 
scrimmage.  These  is  them;  they'm  none  the 
worse." 

Dot  was  amazed ;  she  was  so  used  to  having 
papers  "  scripped "  from  her.  "  I'm  sure  I'm 
much  obHged  to  ye,"  she  said.  "  But  why  didna 
tha  keep  'em  ?  I  should  never  ha  knowed  who 
had  'em." 

"  But  God  would  ! "  said  the  boy,  with  a  bright, 
quick,  upward  look.  "  Paper,  sir  ?  Here,  sir  !  " 
and  he  was  on  the  steps  of  a  'bus  and  whirled 
away  in  a  moment. 

Dot  gazed  after  him  with  a  startled  yet  bright- 
ened look  in  her  great  eyes.  "  God  I  That's  Him 
as  is  above!"  she  said  to  herself.  "I  never 
thought  He'd  notice  sich  a  thing  as  that.  But  th' 
little  lad  spoke  sure  like,  and  looked  at  th'  sky 
with  just  sich  a  look  as  I've  seen  happy  little 
childer  a-trottin*  along  by  their  father's  side 
a-turnin'  to  his  face,  so  trustin'  and  lovin*  loike. 


1 1 2  Dot, 

Eh-h-h  1  but  I'd  loike  to  think  it.  For  then  in 
course  He'd  know  when  the  boys  shove  me,  and 
chuck  my  things  i'  the  dirt,  and  nobody  '11  buy 
my  pappers,  and  Sam  beats  me  so  cruel  when 
I've  done  my  best.  And  if  He  knew,  happen 
He'd  feel  sorry,  for  He  must  be  rare  and  kind  to 
look  down  sich  a  long  way  on  poor  street  childer, 
as  th'  rich  foak  as  seem  so  good  and  nice  pass  by 
wi'out  so  much  as  a  look.  Eh-h-h  !  but  I'd  like 
to  think  it.  It  feels  just  like  *  Come  unto  Me/  it 
does!" 

And  Dot  went  on  her  way  with  a  new  light  in 
her  great  sad  eyes,  a  new  "  fancy  "  glowing  warm 
and  sweet  in  her  sore  little  heart 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

SUMMERS* 

'THROUGH  Dot's  new  "fancy"  was  a  great 
*■  comfort  to  her,  she  could  not  be  content  till 
she  knew  it  to  be  more.  To  that  end  she  longed 
for  a  meeting  with  the  little  pale  boy,  who  seemed 
"  so  sure  and  knowin',"  as  she  phrased  it  to  her- 
self. His  little  frail  form  and  white,  thin  face 
were  quite  familiar  to  her,  though  she  had  never 
spoken  to  him  before. 

It  was  some  days  before  she  had  a  chance. 
Bess  had  so  bad  a  touch  of  bronchitis  that  it  was 
impossible  for  her  to  go  out ;  and  as  there  was, 
as  usual  now,  neither  money  nor  food  in  the 
house,  Sam  condescended  to  go  her  rounds,  with 
Dot  as  guide  and  saleswoman. 

*  All  related  of  this  little  lad,  beyond  his  connection  with 
Dot,  is  absolute,  unvarnished  fact 

8 


1 1 4  Dot. 

But  the  weather  was  bleak,  and  the  baskets 
were  heavy,  and  they  v.ere  as  soon  as  possible 
relegated  to  poor  Bess,  weak  and  suffering  as  she 
was.  Two  days  Dot  was  allowed  to  accompany 
her ;  the  third  she  was  ordered  back  to  her  work 
upon  the  streets. 

For  the  first  time,  but  for  her  mother's  sake, 
she  was  nothing  loth  to  go.  All  day  long  she 
looked  and  inquired  for  the  little  lad, — Summers, 
she  found  he  was  called, — but  though  often  told 
he  was  "somewhere  about,"  she  never  came 
across  him. 

It  was  a  bad  day  for  her.  Do  what  she  would 
she  could  not  sell  her  lights  or  papers,  and  night- 
fall found  her  with  only  half  her  pittance  earned, 
though  she  had  spent  nothing  on  food.  Did 
"  Him  as  was  above "  know  how  cold  and  weak 
and  hungry  she  was,  and  how  she  wanted  to  see 
Summers  ? — she  wondered,  less  and  less  hope- 
fully, as  time  after  time  she  was  elbowed  away 
from  a  chance,  or  pushed  roughly  aside  by  a 
hurrying  passer-by,  on  whom,  with  the  courage 
of  despair,   she   ventured   to   press    her    wares. 


Suntmers.  115 

She  was  more  unv/illing  than  usual  to  go  home 
without  her  full  tale  of  bricks,  because  she  was 
sure  her  mother  would  not  have  been  able  to  earn 
much,  so  Sam  would  be  in  a  savage  mood,  and 
Bess  would  never  see  her  beaten  without  in- 
terference that  cost  her  dear.  But  at  last  she 
could  keep  up  no  longer,  and  turned  fearfully 
homewards. 

Her  nearest  way  lay  through  some  narrow 
streets  of  warehouses,  deserted  then,  for  it  was 
between  eight  and  nine  o'clock.  The  rain  that 
had  fallen  throughout  the  day  had  ceased,  and  the 
moon  was  shining  in  a  clear,  cold  sky.  By  its 
light  Dot  saw  a  little  figure  creep  stealthily  round 
a  corner  a  few  yards  ahead.  It  looked  so  like 
Summers,  that,  tired  as  she  was,  she  turned  out 
of  her  way  to  pursue  it. 

It  was  a  very  narrow  street  into  which  it  had 
turned,  a  tilted  cart  blocked  it  a  little  way  down, 
the  high  warehouses  on  each  side  shut  out  all  but 
a  little  strip  of  sky.  Seeing  no  one.  Dot  was 
about  to  retrace  her  steps,  wlien  her  eye  caught 
a  little  figure  kneeling  on  the  damp  flags  on  the 


ii6  Dot. 

other  side  of  the  cart,  with  clasped,  upraised 
hands  and  white  face  lifted  to  the  strip  of  sky. 
There  was  light  enough  for  her  to  see  that  it 
was  Summers,  "  What  art  tha  doing  here  ? " 
she  called  suddenly  under  the  cart. 

The  boy  started  to  his  feet  with  a  terrified  look, 
which  changed  to  a  pleasant  smile  as  Dot  went 
round  to  him. 

"  I  thowt  it  wur  p'leece,"  he  said.  "  Nobody 
but  them  cooms  here  this  time  o'  neet." 

"I  saw  thee  creepin'  round  the  corner,  and 
followed,  cos  I  wanted  to  speak  to  thee,"  said 
Dot.     "  Thi  name's  Summers,  isn't  it  ?  " 

"They  calls  me  so,  cos  my  name's  Winters — Joey 
Winters — I  s'pose,"  he  answered,  with  a  smile. 

"  And  where  does  tha  live  ? "  asked  Dot, 
wakened  to  interest  by  the  boy's  gentle  face  and 
manner. 

"  I  lives  nowhere,"  he  answered  ;  "  on'y  when 
I've  got  t'  brass  I  sleep  sat  Dan  Buck's  lodgin's." 

"  But  has  tha  no  father  nor  mother  ?  " 

"No  ;  at  least,  father's  dead  and  mother's  run 
away,"  was  the  plaintive  answer. 


Summers.  117 

"  Oh,  poor  little  chap  I  Whatever  does  tha 
do  ?  "  exclaimed  Dot. 

"Oh,  I  gets  on  pretty  fair,"  he  answered 
cheerily.  "  I  sells  papers,  tha  knows,  and  some- 
times folks  is  kind,  and  gives  me  a  h'odd  copper  or 
two,  cos  I'm  so  small  and  weakly  like.  And  when 
I  ain't  got  brass  for  a  bed  I  sleeps  i'  this  cart." 

"  Oh,  poor  little  chap ! "  exclaimed  Dot  again. 
"  But  isn't  it  cold  ?  " 

"Ay,  it's  some  cold,"  he  answered  patiently. 
"  But  t'  carter  al'as  leaves  plenty  o'straw  in  it  o' 
purpose  for  me  ;  ain't  it  good  o'  him  ?  " 

The  tears  she  seldom  shed  for  her  own  sorrows 
gathered  in  Dot's  eyes.  "  Tha'rt  worse  off  nor 
me  by  long  chalks,"  she  said ;  "  for  I've  a  room 
to  sleep  in  and  the  best  mother  as  ever  was. 
Eh-h-h,  but  I'm  sorry  for  thee." 

Answering  tears  stood  in  the  little  fellow's  eyes, 
and  his  voice  trembled  as  he  said,  with  a  quivering 
smile,  "  I  don't  mind  it  so  very  much,  cos,  tha 
knows,  it  won't  be  fur  long.  I'm  goin'  home  soon." 
„  Goin'  home  ?  I  thought  tha  had  no  home," 
exclaimed  puzzled  Dot. 


ii8  Dot. 

"  Ah,  but  I  have,  though,"  he  said,  a  full  smile 
now  lighting  his  wan  face ;  "  up  theer,  wi'  Jesus." 

Dot  followed  his  upward  glance  with  wondering 
eyes.     "  Who  is  Jesus  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Eh,  does  na  tha  know  ?  "  exclaimed  Summers, 
aghast  and  pitiful. 

"  Is  it  Him  as  is  above  ?  "  asked  Dot.  Then, 
breathless  with  a  thought  that  flashed  across  her, 
"  Oh,  is  it  Him  as  said  '  Come  unto  Me  '  ?  ' 

"Ay,  it's  Him,"  answered  Summers,  nodding 
and  smiling.  "  I  thowt  tha  must  know  'bout 
Htm." 

"  But  I  don't.  On'y  I've  got  a  card,  and  tha 
saidst  He'd  ha'  knowed  if  tha'd  kep'  my  papers," 
explained  Dot,  not  very  lucidly.  "  That's  what  I 
wanted  to  ask  thee  'bout." 

"In   course   He'd   ha'   knowed.      He   knows 
everythin'." 

"But  I  shouldn't  ha'  thought  He'd  take  notice 
o'  such  things  as  that,  or  o'  us  as  is  so  poor  and 
ragged,"  said  Dot  anxiously. 

"Oh,  shouldn't  you?"  answered  Summers, 
with  a  radiant  face.     "  Why,  lass.  He  /eves  us  1 


Summers.  119 

He  died  for  us,  died  for  us  o'  the  cross,  and  now 
He's  in  heaven  a-thinkin'  of  us,  and  a-lovin*  of  us, 
and  a-hearin*  us  when  we  pray,  and  makin'  ready 
a  beautiful  home  for  us  to  live  in  for  ever,  wheer 
we  sha'n't  never  be  hungry  nor  sick  nor  cold  no 
more." 

*'  Eh-h-h,    but    it    sounds    beau-t\^\x\ ! "    said 
Dot.     "  I've  fancied  somethin'  a  bit  like  it  mysen, 
but  it  seemed  too  good  to  be  true,  and  this  is 
better.     Art  sure  it's  true,  Joey  ?  '* 
"  Ay,  it's  true,"  he  answered. 

"Jesus  loves  me,  this  I  know, 
For  the  Bible  tells  me  so  ; 
Little  ones  to  Him  belong  : 
They  are  weak,  but  He  is  strong.** 

"And  does  tha  think  He  loves  me?"  asked 
Dot  tremulously. 

"  I'm  sure  on  it.  Tha'rt  a  little  un,  and  weak, 
art  na  tha  ?" 

"Eh-h-h,  but  it's  good  o'  Him,"  said  Dot. 
"  And  mother,  poor  mother,  dost  think  He  loves 
her  too,  Joey  ?  She  's  over-fond  o'  the  drink,  tha 
knows,"  she  admitted  reluctantly. 


1 20  Dot. 

"  In  course  He  loves  her,"  said  Joey  confidently. 
"  Why,  He  cam'  into  the  world  o'  purpose  to  save 
sinners,  and  to  bear  th'  punishment  i'stead  o'  them. 
Si'  thee,  what's  thy  name  ?  " 

"  Dot— Dot  Branker." 

"Well,  Dot,  tha  coom  wi'  me  to  th'  Ragged 
School  o'  Sunday,  and  teacher  '11  tell  thee  all 
about  Him — how  He  was  bornded  i'  a  stable,  and 
had  not  wheer  to  lay  His  head,  and  died  o'  th' 
cross  for  our  sins,  and  went  back  to  heaven  to 
mak'  us  a  home,  and  loves  us,  and  hears  us,  and 
it'll  mak'  thee  foine  and  happy."  And  the  little 
street-preacher  gasped  for  breath. 

"Did  tha  learn  it  all  theer?"  asked  Dot,  to 
whom  school  was  a  word  of  terror.  "  Well,  I'll 
coom,"  as  Joey  nodded. 

"  A'  reet,"  he  responded  joyfully.  "  We'n  say 
good-neet  now  then,  for  I'm  feart  o'  t'  p'leece 
catchin'  me  afore  I  gets  to  bed." 

"Good-night,"  said  Dot.  "But  I'm  loth  to 
leave  thee  all  by  thysen,  poor  little  chap." 

"  Eh,  but  I'm  not  by  mysen,"  said  Joey,  with 
another  of  his  bright  upward  looks.     "  Jesus  is  up 


Summers,  121 

theer,  a-watchin'   over  me,  and  He'd  know  in  a 
minute  if  anythin'  came  nigh  to  hurt  me." 

They  arranged  place  and  time  for  meeting  on 
the  next  Sunday — this  was.  Monday — and  parted. 
Dot,  turning  at  the  corner  for  a  farewell  look,  saw 
Joey  kneeling  again,  with  clasped  hands  and  lifted 
face.  "  He's  talking  to  Him  as  is  above,"  she 
whispered  with  awe.  "  Eh-h-h,  but  it's  wonder- 
ful !     And  I  wish  to-morrow  wur  Sunday,  I  do." 


CHAPTER  XV. 

DOTS  FIRST  PR  A  YER. 

"TA  OT  went  her  way  with  a  confused,  delighted 
^-"^  sense  of  something  having  happened  which 
had  changed  the  whole  aspect  of  life  to  her.  She 
did  not  at  all  understand  the  things  that  Joey  had 
told  her;  it  was  not  likely  she  would.  They 
were  as  new  to  her  as  if  she  had  been  bom 
a  little  swarthy  savage  in  African  wilds.  But 
a  warm  glow  of  hope  and  comfort,  bom  of  a 
delicious  sense  of  being  loved  and  cared  for  by 
some  One  infinitely  good  and  strong  and  kind,  so 
filled  her  little  breast  that  her  wants  and  fears 
were  forgotten  till  she  reached  the  dark  passage 
leading  into  the  court  in  which  she  lived. 

They  were  brought  back  to  her  rudely  then. 

"  Has  tha  got  thi  money,  Dot  ?  "  asked  a  boy 
from  the  house  in  passing. 


124  I^^^' 

"  No,"  she  faltered  ruefully. 

"  Tha'Ilt  cop  it,  then.  Thi  feyther's  drunk,  and 
has  been  lickin'  thi  mother  loike  a'  th'  foon." 

Poor  little  Dot  stood  still  in  terror.  "  Oh,  what 
shall  I  do  !  what  shall  I  do  I  "  she  cried,  clasping 
her  hands. 

Suddenly,  so  softly  and  sweetly  that  her  fancy 
might  have  come  true,  and  an  angel  have  been 
sent  to  whisper  in  her  ear,  the  words  "  Come 
unto  Me  "  rang  through  her  little  frightened  soul. 

She  stood  stock  still  a  moment,  and  thought. 
"  I  can  but  try,"  she  said  aloud  at  last,  and, 
kneeling  on  the  slushy  flags,  like  Joey,  with 
clasped  hands,  she  looked  up  to  the  sky,  and  said, 
"  O  Him  that  is  above,  if  that  as  Joey  tellt  me  is 
true,  and  Tha  loves  such  poor  little  ragged  things 
as  me,  please  t'  help  me.  I've  tried  my  best, 
indeed  I  have ;  but  th'  boys  is  so  rough,  and  no 
folks  hardly  wanted  lights,  and  I'm  so  tired  and 
hungry ;  and  Sam's  drunk,  and  '11  beat  me  cruel, 
and  Joey  says  Tha'd  know  in  a  minnit  if  anybody 
came  nigh  to  hurt  htm.  Oh,  please  t'  help  me, 
please  t'  keep  Sam  from  beatin'  me." 


'^'J^Le/Kse^J'j^eiP-^e-" 


TP^TT^, 


Dot's  First   Prayer.  125 

She  rose  then,  and  with  slow  steps  and  beating 
heart  ascended  the  stairs  and  opened  the  door. 
Bess  lay  in  a  huddled  heap,  asleep  or  in  a  stupor. 
Sam  was  sitting  sullenly  by  an  empty  gin-bottle. 
He  turned,  and  swore  at  her  fiercely  as  she  crept 
timidly  in,  and  her  heart  sank  within  her.  She 
handed  him  the  money.  With  an  oath  he  threw 
it  on  the  table,  started  up  with  furious  eyes,  and, 
snatching  a  strap,  raised  it  with  savage  intent. 
Poor  Dot's  heart  sent  out  a  despairing  cry,  and 
she  sank  a  cowering  heap  on  the  floor  at  his  feet, 
in  shuddering  expectation  of  the  first  of  a  rain  of 
blows. 

But  it  came  not.  "  Prayer  moves  the  hand  that 
rules  the  world,"  and  that  mighty  hand  was  laid 
on  that  brutaliiced  heart. 

For  what  seemed  to  Dot  in  her  suspense  and 
terror  long  moments  there  was  silence  and  still- 
ness. Then  a  sound  as  of  something  flung  to  the 
other  side  of  the  room.  Then  Sam  shoved  her 
with  his  foot.  "  Ger  up,"  he  said,  "  and  fetch  us 
sixpenn'orth  o'  gin." 

Dot  sprang  up,  snatched  up  bottle  and  money, 


126  DoL 

and  sped  out  into  the  street  again.  It  seemed  as 
if  she  trod  on  air.  "  He  heard  me  I  He  heard 
me  I  Oh,  it's  true,  it's  all  true  ! "  she  kept  repeat- 
ing.    "  I  don't  care  for  nothin'  now  1 " 

And  in  all  Manchester  that  night  no  child's 
heart  beat  more  joyfully  and  thankfully  than  little 
Dot  Branker's,  when,  having  supped  on  a  dry 
crust  shoved  towards  her  by  Sam,  she  lay  down 
to  rest  on  her  heap  of  straw. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

LITTLE  JOEY  Ei\TERS  /AT. 

OUNDAY  came  in  due — but  to  Dot  very  slow 
*^^  — course.  Things  in  the  meantime  had  gone 
very  hard  with  her.  Bess,  suffering  and  wretched, 
had  been  drunk  much  of  the  time,  cross  and 
despondent  when  not.  Sam,  stinted  of  his 
"  rights,"  was  more  savage  and  surly  than  ever. 
And  she  had  never  come  across  Joey.  The  warm 
glow  had  died  out  of  her  heart.  "  Happen  it's 
cos  I  don't  understand,"  she  thought,  and  longed 
for  Sunday. 

To  the  moment  she  was  at  the  appointed  ren- 
dezvous, but  Joey  was  not  there ;  and  though  she 
waited  hour  after  hour,  no  Joey  came.  She  went 
home  in  very  doleful  mood.  "  Happen  th*  little 
lad  wur  on'y  coddin'  me,"  she  thought  bitterly  ; 
"  and  somethin'  might  ha'  come  over  Sam." 


128  DoL 

But  she  could  not  think  this  really  or  long. 
Little  Joey  had  seemed  so  earnest  and  so  true, 
and  such  a  thing  had  never  come  over  Sam  before 
or  since.  It  wras  more  likely  Joey  was  too  ill  to 
come.  He  had  looked  so  pale  and  thin  and  weak, 
and  sleeping  out  that  raw,  damp  night  1  This 
thought  made  Dot  feel  pitiful  and  anxious,  but 
was  far  more  bearable  than  the  first. 

Again  her  patience  was  to  be  tried.  Bess  was 
worse  than  ever,  and  for  three  days  she  had  no 
chance  of  meeting  Joey.  But  on  the  fourth,  in 
defiance  of  Bess's  remonstrance,  Sam,  put  on 
short  allowance  of  gin,  turned  her  out  late  in  the 
evening,  and  weary  with  a  long  day's  hawking, 
daring  ber  to  return  "  under  sixpenn'orth."  But 
as  Bess  contrived  to  slip  a  purposely-reserved 
threepence  into  her  hand  unobserved,  the  task 
was  not  a  hopeless  one,  and  Dot  was  almost  glad 
of  it,  in  that  it  gave  her  a  chance  of  at  least  hear- 
ing something  of  Joey. 

Fortune  favoured  her.  She  had  hardly  got  into 
Market  Street  when  she  met  a  lad  called  Dick, 
one  of  the  least  ill-natured  of  her  tormentors,  and 


Little  Joey  enters  in,  129 

whom  she  had  often  seen  with  Joey,  whom  he 
patronized  and  protected. 

"  Has  tha  seen  Summers  to-day,  Dick  ?  "  she 
asked  anxiously. 

The  boy  stopped  suddenly  in  the  midst  of  a 
hideous  grimace  he  was  executing  for  her  benefit. 
"  Nay,"  he  answered  in  a  changed  tone,  "  they 
wouldna  let  me.     He's  gone  by  now,  I  specs." 

"  Gone  1 "  cried  Dot.     "  Where  ?  " 

"  To  t*  grand  home  he  wur  al'as  talkin'  about, 
I  s'pose.  Leastways,  they  said  he  wur  deein'  this 
mornin'." 

"Deein' I"  exclaimed  Dot.  "Deein*  I  Oh, 
don't  say  that,  Dick,  don't  say  that!" 

"  It  won't  make  much  differ  my  saying  it  or 
not,"  said  Dick,  with  a  doggedness  that  covered 
much  sorrow  of  heart.     "  He  be  deein'." 

And  he  went  on  to  tell  how,  a  little  over  a 
week  ago,  poor  little  "  Summers  "  had  dropped  in 
a  faint  at  the  corner  of  Corporation  Street,  and 
had  been  taken  to  the  nearest  approach  to  a  home 
he  had — Dan  Buck's  lodging-house — by  the  order 
of  his  ragged-school  teacher,  who  happened  to 

9 


130  Dot. 

pass  at  the  time,  and  how  he  had  gone  off  in 
a  "  gallopin'  waste,"  though,  as  Dick  said, 
"  Theer  wasna  mich  on  him  to  waste,  poor  httle 
chap ! " 

Dot's  great  grief  touched  Dick  in  a  tender 
point,  and,  to  comfort  her,  he  directed  her  to  Dan 
Buck's.  "  'Tain't  no  good,  though,  for  he'll  be 
i'  heaven  by  now,"  he  said  to  himself,  drawing 
his  ragged  sleeve  across  his  eyes.  **  Whoi,  Dick, 
tha  fou',  tha'rt  croin'  loike  a  babby  ! "  and  with 
a  whoop  that  sounded  as  unmirthful  as  it  was 
hideous,  he  darted  forward,  and  upset  an  old 
woman's  orange-basket  by  way  of  raising  his 
spirits. 

But  little  Joey  was  not  in  heaven  yet.  So  Dot 
learned  from  Mrs.  Buck,  who,  however,  refused 
to  let  her  see  him,  and  she  was  turning  broken- 
hearted away,  when,  to  her  wonder  and  delight, 
a  gentleman  who  had  come  in  and  stood  by 
unobserved,  took  her  part.  "  Let  her  come  in 
with  me,"  he  said ;  "  I  will  see  she  does  not  harm 
him."  And  he  took  her  little  cold  hand  in  such  a 
warm,  kind  clasp,  and  led  her  kindly  up  the  stairs, 


Little  Joey  enters  in.  131 

telling  her  she  must  not  grieve  for  Joey,  who  was 
very  happy,  and  going  home  to  Jesus. 

They  entered  a  bare  little  room,  where,  on  a 
hard,  dingy  bed,  Joey  lay.  His  eyes  were  closed, 
and  the  tears  were  flowing  thick  and  fast  down 
his  white,  white  cheeks. 

"Crying  again,  Joey,"  said  the  gentleman, 
tenderly  laying  his  hand  on  the  brow  on  which 
the  death-dews  gleamed.  "You  are  not  afraid, 
are  you  ?  " 

He  opened  his  eyes  then.  Love  and  joy  shone 
in  them.  "  Afeerd  o'  goin'  home  to  Jesus  ?  "  he 
said.  "  No,  sir ;  oh  no,  no !  'Tain't  no  use  o'  me 
livin'.  But  somehow  I  can't  help  cryin*,  I  feels 
so  soft  and  weak  like." 

He  was  very  weak,  and  closed  his  eyes  wearily. 
After  a  time  he  opened  them  again.  "  Why,  Dot, 
is  that  thee?"  he  said  feebly.  "Eh,  but  I'm 
glad.  I  couldna  come  o'  Sunday ;  but  I  minded 
thee,  and  asked  Jesus  t'  look  after  thee.  Tha  tell 
her  about  Him,  teacher ;  I  can't  now." 

"  I  will,  Joey ;  she  shall  have  your  place  in  my 
class,"  was  the  kind  and  earnest  reply. 


132  Dot, 

Joey  gave  a  look  and  smile  of  love  and  trust 
into  the  kind  face  bending  over  him,  and  again 
closed  his  eyes. 

"  Where's  Dick  ?  "  he  asked  suddenly,  after  a 
while. 

"  He's  not  here,  Joey ;  but  I'll  tell  him  anything 
you  like." 

With  an  effort  he  pulled  two  dirty  papers,  the 
remnant  of  his  last  stock,  from  under  his  pillow. 
"  Give  one  t'  him,"  he  said,  "  and  keep  t'  other 
yersen.     It's  all  I've  got  to  give  ye," 

He  was  quiet  a  while,  then  he  asked,  "  Can  I 
sing?" 

"It  will  hurt  you,  Joey,"  was  the  tenderly- 
spoken  reply. 

"But  I'll  want  to  sing  in  heaven,"  he  said 
earnestly ;  and  in  a  few  moments  his  voice  rose 
clear  and  distinct  in  his  favourite  hymn — 

"  Jesus  loves  me,  this  I  know. 
For  the  Bible  tells  me  so ; 
Little  ones  to  Him  belong : 
They  are  weak,  but  He  is  strong. 
Yes,  Jesus  loves  me,  yes,  Jesus  loves  me^ 
Yes,  Jesus  loves  me  ;  the  Bible  tells  me  so." 


Little  Joey  enters  in.  133 

He  paused  a  minute  or  two,  and  then  went 
on — 

*'  Jesus  loves  me,  He  who  died 
Heaven's  gate  to  open  wide  ; 
He  will  wash  away  my  sin, 
Let  His  little  child  come  in." 

His  voice  failed  utterly  in  the  last  line,  there 
was  a  slight  struggle,  and  all  was  still.  Jesus 
had  let  His  little  child  come  in. 


CHAPTER    XVII. 

NEVER  ALL   UP  WHILE  JESUS  LIVES. 

''  I  ^HE  gentleman  having  closed  Joey's  blue  eyes 
-*■  tenderly,  turned  to  Dot,  who  had  stood  still 
as  a  mouse  beside  him,  clinging  to  the  hand 
which  yet  held  hers  in  a  kind,  protective  clasp. 
"Joey  is  safe  home,"  he  said.  "Jesus  has  let 
His  little  child  come  in."  There  were  tears  in 
his  eyes,  but  a  solemn  gladness  in  his  voice. 

Dot  burst  into  a  passion  of  tears.  The  gentle- 
man sat  down  upon  the  bed — there  was  no  other 
seat  in  the  room — and  took  her,  ragged  and  dirty 
as  she  was,  upon  his  knee.  "  You  are  sorry  to 
part  with  your  little  friend,"  he  said,  "  and  so  am 
I.  But  we  must  be  glad  for  Joey,  Dot.  He  will 
never  be  sick  or  hungry  any  more ;  the  little  feet 
that  were  so  cold  and  tired  on  these  muddy 
Manchester  streets  will  walk  now  on   streets  of 


136  Dot, 

gold ;  the  little  body  that  was  so  weak  and  ragged 
and  dirty  here  will  be  strong  and  beautiful,  and 
dressed  in  spotless  clothes  of  shining  white. 
The  little  heart  that  was  often  so  sad  and 
lonely  here  will  be  always  full  of  love  and  joy, 
for  he  will  be  with  Jesus,  see  Him,  hear  Him 
speak  ,  and  '  God  Himself  will  wipe  away  all  tears 
from  his  eyes.' " 

"  Oh  ! "  sobbed  Dot,  "  but  I'd  like  to  ha'  gone 
with  him,  I  would  I  " 

"  You  could  not  go  with  him,  my  child,  but  you 
may  go  after  him.  Jesus  will  surely  some  day 
take  you  to  the  same  bright  home  if  you  love  and 
trust  Him  as  Joey  did." 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know  how  1  I  don't  know  how  I " 
sobbed  Dot.  "  I  didn't  know  nothin'  till  Joey  tellt 
me." 

"Well,  I  will  teach  you,  as  I  promised  Joey. 
He  told  me  all  about  you.  Dot,  and  I  had  promised 
him  to  look  after  you ;  I  dare  say  he  thought  I 
had  when  he  saw  you  with  me.  But  Jesus  knew 
I  had  no  time,  and  did  it  Himself,  you  see." 

"  Please,  sir,  it  were  Dick,"  said  Dot  timidly. 


Never  all  itp  while  Jesus  lives.     137 

"  That  told  you  about  Joey  and  sent  you  here  ? 
Yes,  I  dare  say.  None  the  less,  it  was  Jesus* 
doing,  little  Dot.  He  uses  odd  messengers  to  do 
His  errands  sometimes.  But  now  will  you  meet 
me  next  Sunday  where  you  were  to  have  met 
Joey  last  week,  and  at  the  same  time  ?  " 

Dot's  face  was  a  sight  to  see,  in  its  tears,  its 
streakiness,  and  its  delight. 

"  Oh,  I  will,  I  will ! "  she  cried.  "  Oh,  sir, 
how  good  you  are !  I  thought  it  were  all  up  wi' 
me  knowin'  about  Him  as  is  above  when  Joey 
were  deein'  ! " 

"  My  child,  it  is  never  all  up  in  this  world  with 
any  one  while  Jesus  lives,  and  that  is  for  ever. 
Remember  that.  Dot,  never  all  up  v^'ith  any  one 
while  Jesus  lives.  He  is  able  and  willing  to  save 
the  weakest,  the  hardest,  and  the  vilest." 

Dot  did  remember  it. 

"  And  now,  my  child,  it  is  high  time  you  were 
going  home.     Where  is  it  you  live  ?  " 

"  r  Ancoats,  sir." 

"  Oh,  but  that's  a  long  way.  You  must  go  at 
once,  and  run  your  best,  my  dear." 


138  Dot 

Dot's  face  fell.  "  I've  got  threepence  to  make 
first,  and  it  must  be  after  ten,"  she  said  dolefully. 

"  How  is  that  ? "  asked  her  friend.  Dot 
explained. 

His  face  grew  troubled  as  he  listened.  To  give 
the  threepence  was  to  minister  to  the  selfish  appe- 
tite of  a  degraded  sot,  to  withhold  it  was  to 
expose  that  wretched,  weary-looking  child  to 
brutal  usage,  or  fruitless  lingering  in  the  cold, 
dark  streets — perhaps  to  both.  The  first  was 
against  his  principles;  the  second  sorely  against 
his  heart.  "  Oh,  when  will  a  Christian  Govern- 
ment awake  to  the  sense  of  its  duty  of  protecting 
these  poor  little  victims  of  parental  vice ! "  he 
groaned  inwardly,  as,  letting  his  heart  triumph, 
he  made  Dot's  cup  of  gratitude  and  joy  run  over 
with  the  gift  of  the  required  pence.  By  the  bed 
where  lay  the  still,  cold  form  of  one  little  victim 
of  the  cruel  streets,  could  he  have  done  other- 
wise ? 

Tired  as  Dot  was,  she  shuffled  along  in  her 
heavy  laceless  boots  at  a  great  rate,  the  hand, 
that  yet  seemed  to  feel  the  warm,  kind  clasp  of 


Never  all  up  while  Jesus  lives.     139 

her  new  friend,  holding  his  gift  of  pence  lovingly 
against  the  heart  which  was  ready  to  burst  with 
wonder,  gratitude,  and  joy.  She  could  not  feel 
sorry  for  Joey  any  more,  not  for  herself  just 
then.  He  had  got  to  the  beautiful  home  he  had  so 
longed  for,  and  she  would  one  day  go  there  too, 
the  grand  gentleman  had  said  so;  and  he  with 
his  refined  speech  and  gentle  ways  and  wonderful 
knowledge  was  "  as  an  angel  of  God "  to  poor 
little  ignorant,  roughly-nurtured  Dot. 

When  she  reached  home  Sam  was  out.  Bess, 
seated  on  the  only  chair — a  broken  one — that  the 
room  now  contained,  was  rocking  herself  to  and 
fro  before  the  fireless  grate,  her  head  in  her 
hands,  uttering  a  low  moaning  sound.  The  room 
was  strewed  with  the  contents  of  her  baskets, 
scales  and  weights  and  cockels,  and  with  broken 
earthenware.    There  had  evidently  been  a  struggle. 

Dot  gave  one  dismayed  glance  at  the  havoc 
round,  and  then  went  up  to  Bess,  who  had  not 
noticed  her  entrance,  and  put  her  little  blue  arms 
tenderly  round  her.  "  Eh-h-h,  poor  mother,  he's 
been  at  it  again,"  she  said  pitifully. 


I40  Dot. 

Bess  raised  a  bruised  and  bleeding  face.  "  Ay, 
oo's  bin  at  it  agin,"  she  repeated,  with  dull  bitter- 
ness. "  Oo's  took  all  th'  brass — th'  foive  shillin' 
as  aw'd  hid  atween  t'  weights  for  t'  market  i'  th* 
mornin',  and  they'll  noan  gi'  me  credit  now.  It's 
a'  oop.  Dot,  I'd  best  do  for  thee  and  mysen  what 
thi  poor  mother  thowt  to  do  eleven  years  agone. 
T'  river  'd  be  noan  so  mich  colder  nor  this  room, 
aw'm  thinkin'."  She  shivered,  and  her  looks 
were  so  wild  that  Dot  was  frightened. 

"  Oh,  mother,  don't  talk  like  that !  "  she  cried. 

"  Whoi  not  ? "  said  Bess  sullenly.  "  It  'ud 
be  best.  Aw  conna  bear  this  loife  mich  longer, 
and  what  'd  tha  do  wi'out  me  ?  Better  happen," 
she  added  with  a  little  laugh,  "  aw'm  nobbut  a 
trooble  to  thee  now." 

Dot  knelt  by  her  side,  and  put  her  arms  round 
her  neck,  and  laid  her  little  thin  cheek  against  the 
bruised  and  blowzed  one.  "  I  wouldn't  be  wi'out 
thee  for  the  world,  mother,"  she  said  ;  "  it's  noan 
thee,  but  Sam  and  the  drink  that  mak's  trouble." 

Bess's  better  nature  woke  for  a  moment.  "  Eh 
my  blessin',  but  aw  meant  better  by  thee  nor  this, 


jojQuip/^T' ^^ •  ^f  OUT  Tt/5E  -floR. 


Never  all  up  while  Jesus  lives.      141 

aw  did,"  she  sobbed,  clasping  Dot  close.  "  But 
it's  a'  cop,  lass,  a'  cop,  now  1 "  and  she  relapsed 
into  despondency.  She  was  in  a  maudlin  state ; 
sobered  enough  by  the  sleep  from  which  she  had 
been  wakened  by  Sam  rifling  her  pockets,  and  by 
the  struggle  that  followed,  to  realize  hard  facts, 
\)ut  still  too  stupefied  to  take  in  new  ideas.  So 
when,  in  response  to  her  repeated  moan,  "  It's  a' 
oop,  lass,  it's  a'  oop,"  Dot  joyously  asserted,  "  No, 
mother,  it  is  not,  for  there's  Jesus  !  "  and  with  all 
a  child's  eagerness  and  incoherence  poured  forth 
her  story  of  the  wonderful  things  she  had  heard ; 
of  little  Joey  gone  home  to  the  golden  streets  and 
shining  clothes,  and  of  Jesus,  Who  said,  "Come 
unto  Me,"  and  was  "  Him  as  is  above,"  and  knew 
all  about  everything  and  everybody,  and  was 
good  and  loving  and  strong,  and  cared  for  poor 
folk  like  them,  and  heard  them  when  they  spoke 
to  Him ;  and  of  the  grand  kind  gentleman  who 
had  taken  her  upon  his  knee,  and  told  her  to 
remember  that  it  was  never  all  up  with  any  one 
while  Jesus  lived,  and  was  going  to  teach  her 
how  to  get  to  the  beautiful  home  where  Joey  was 


142  Dot, 

gone ; — she  only  listened  with  a  dull,  bewildered 
face,  and  when  Dot,  out  of  breath,  paused  at  last, 
muttered,  "  But  it's  a'  oop  wi'  me,  lass,  it's  a'  oop 
now ! " 

Dot  was  not  much  discouraged.  "  She  can't 
understand  for  the  drink,"  she  thought ;  "  I'll  tell 
her  again  i'  th'  morning." 

But  it  was  not  much  different  then,  or  the  many 
times  after  that  Dot  tried  to  comfort  Bess  with 
her  own  new  hopes  and  knowledge.  She  listened, 
indeed,  sometimes  tenderly  and  admiringly,  some- 
times sullenly  and  indifferently,  according  to  her 
mood,  but  never,  to  Dot's  wonder,  hopefully,  still 
less  rejoicingly.  "  He'd  ha'  nowt  to  do  wi'  me^'' 
was  her  strong  conviction  concerning  "  Him  as 
was  above,"  and  all  Dot's  simple  logic  failed  to 
shake  it,  or  to  inspire  one  ray  of  hope. 

The  child  was  at  first  sorely  troubled  and 
discouraged  by  her  poor  mother's  insensibility; 
but  when  she  had  spent  a  few  Sundays  at  the 
Ragged  School,  and  learned  as  she — little  bucket 
dipped  in  ocean — would  have  said,  "all  about 
Jesus,"  she  took  refuge  in  prayer.    And  poor  Bess 


Never  all  up  while  Jesus  lives.     143 

dragging  on  through  weary  day  after  weary  day, 
each  one  harder  than  the  last,  and  moaning  often 
with  heart  and  lip,  "  It's  a'  oop  wi'  me  1 "  heard 
as  often  a  voiceless  whisper  that  she  could  not 
choose  but  hear,  "  It's  never  all  up  with  any  one 
while  Jesus  lives." 

And  slowly,  slowly,  slowly,  unknovn  to  Dot  as 
to  h'^rself,  a  glimmer  of  hope  broke  faintly  over  the 
dark  waste  waters  of  her  souL 


CHAPTER     XVIII. 

"S [/AIM AT  IN-  IT"  FOR   BESS. 

/^^HRISTMAS  had  come  and  passed.  Bells 
^-^  had  rung,  and  groaning  boards  had  been 
spread,  and  happy  families  had  gathered,  and 
loving  gifts  had  been  given  and  received,  and 
treasure-laden  trees  had  blossomed  and  been 
stripped,  but  poor  little  Dot's  share  in  the  festivi- 
ties of  the  season  had  been  a  wistful,  wondering 
gaze  into  the  gaily-decked,  teeming  shops,  or 
after  bright-faced  children  dancing  along  with 
lighted  eyes  and  laden  arms. 

But  now  the  New  Year  was  at  hand,  and  some 
hearts,  young  and  old,  moved  by  gratitude  and 
love  to  Him  from  Whom  all  the  blessings  so 
richly  poured  upon  their  happy  Christmastide  had 
come,  had  planned  a  feast  and  festival  for  such 
as  Dot. 

It  was  the  fourth  Sunday  of  her  attendance  at 

lO 


146  Dot. 

the  Ragged  School  and  the  last  day  of  the  year. 
Bess  was  sitting  alone  in  the  early  mid-winter 
darkness,  her  head  sunk  in  her  hands, — her  usual 
position  now, — before  a  miserable  handful  of  fire, 
when  Dot  broke  excitedly  into  the  room.  She 
had  seen  Sam  drinking  with  a  "pal"  below. 
"  Oh,  mother  ! "  she  exclaimed,  "  what  dost  tha 
think  ?  There's  goin'  to  be  a  tea-drinkin'  to- 
morrow at  the  school,  sanie  as  last  year  as  Sally 
Flynn  tellt  me  of,  wi'  cakes  and  buns,  and  oranges, 
and  tea  as  sweet  as  sweet,  and  a'  in  plenty,  and 
ladies  and  gentlemen  to  wait  o'  ye,  and  beautiful 
pictures  as  moves  and  speaks  after,  wi'  Jesus  in 
'em  every  one ;  an'  teacher's  give  me  a  ticket  for 
me,  and  a  ticket  for  yoiCs  well — si'  thee  !  "  and 
she  held  them  up  in  triumph.  "  Oh,  mother, 
arn't  tha  glad  ?  " 

"Ay,-  lass,"  said  Bess,  when  she  could  free 
herself  from  the  transported  hug  with  which  Dot 
finished.  "Aw'm  very  glad  fur  thee  to  have  thi 
fill  fur  once,  that  aw  am." 

"  But  tha'llt  coom  thysen,  mother  I "  cried 
Dot,  chilled  by  Bess's  apathetic  manner. 


"  Stuujnai  in  W  for  Bess         147 

"  Nay,  lass,  avv'm  noan  t'  sort  to  go  tea-drinkin 
i'  these  days,"  replied  Bess  bitterly. 

"  But,  mother,  tha  must !  Teacher  wants  to 
see  thee  pertikler.  *  Tell  yer  mother,'  he  said,  *  as 
I'll  be  proud  to  shake  hands  wi'  th'  woman  as 
took  a  helpless  orphan  to  her  heart  and  home.' 
Them's  his  very  words,  mother ;  and  '  mind  you 
bring  her/  he  says  to  me." 

"  Ay  ? "  said  Bess,  gratified  and  softened. 
"  Eh-h-h,  but,  my  lass,  he  doesna  know  what 
drink  and  Sam  ha'  made  o'  me  I " 

"  Oh,  but  he  does,  mother — leastways  he  knows 
they've  made  thee  mis'rable  and  poor,  and  to  feel 
lost  and  hopeless-like — and  it's  jest  sich  as  them 
he  cares  for,  cos  Jesus  does." 

"  Well,  aw'll  go  ! "  said  Bess,  with  sudden 
determination.  "  Happen  vheer's  suminat  in  it 
arter  all,"  she  muttered. 

"  And  tha'll  not  take  no  drink  to-morrow, 
mother,"  said  Dot  coaxingly.  "  Cos  I  want  thee 
to  understand,  tha  knows,  all  about  Jesus  and  th' 
good  home  He's  makin'  us,  and  be  made  happy 
like   me,"  she  pleaded.     And,  if  Bess  could  not 


148  Dot. 

see  the  tears  in  her  eyes,  she  could  hear  them  in 
her  voice. 

"  Aw  won't,  Dot,"  she  said  earnestly,  "  not  if 
aw  drops  i'  th'  street  for  want  on  it,  aw  won't. 
And  if  theer's  a  chance  for  me,  aw'Il  tak'  it.  So 
theerl" 

And  that  there  was  a  chance  for  her  Eess  for 
the  first  time  began  consciously  to  hope,  very 
tremblingly  and  doubtfully.  "  Thcer  mun  be 
summat  in  it,  theer  mun,"  she  said  to  herself 
as  she  listened  to  Dot,  cold  and  hungry  as  she 
was,  crooning  sweet  snatches  of  hymns,  or  retail- 
ing fragments  of  her  teacher's  talk.  "  Yon's 
another  choildt  sin'  00  heard  on  it.  Eh-h-h,  and 
aw'd  be  another  ooman  too,  if  what  00  thinks 
wur  true  fur  me  !  But  it  ain't  loikely,  it  ain't 
nohow  loikely !  Yon  choildt's  that  loovin'  and 
troostin'  i'  spoite  o'  all  aw'n  brow't  her  to,  oo'd 
think  onybody  ud  do  owt  fur  me  !  '  Ilim  as  is 
above  moight  well  care  fur  her,  poor  misfort'nit, 
innocent  darlin' ;  but  nod  for  sich  as  me !  Nay, 
it's  not  loikely,  nod  nohow  loikely  ! " 

But   likely   or  not   likely,  through  the  chilled 


** Summat  in  it''  for  Bess.        149 

depths  of  poor  Bess's  heart  a  warm  under-current 
of  hope  was  flowing. 

She  kept  her  promise  to  Dot ;  and  the  next 
afternoon  found  them,  made  as  tidy  as  soap  and 
water  could  make  them,  wending  their  way  at  the 
appointed  time  through  biting  frost  and  fast-fall- 
ing snow;  Dot  radiant  with  hope  and  happiness, 
Bess  shy  and  despondent  through  the  absence  of 
her  accustomed  "  heartenin'." 

But  when  they  entered  the  warm  brightly- 
lighted  room,  with  its  evergreen  deckings,  ;  n  1 
snowy- spread  tables  laden  with  good  cheer,  and 
bright-coloured  ware,  and  flowers  and  oranges, 
Dot's  delight  deepened  into  ecstasy,  and  Bess 
forgot  her  shyness  in  admiration.  They  were 
early,  but  a  few  guests  as  poor  and  wretched- 
looking  as  themselves  were  already  assembled. 
Fair,  daintily-dressed  maidens  and  beaming-faced 
children  were  flitting  to  and  fro,  giving  finishing 
touches  to  the  laden  tables,  and  settling  the  shy 
and  silent  guests  in  their  places.  At  the  farther 
end  of  the  room,  where  a  great  white  sheet  was 
spread,     a    number    of   gentlemen    were    busy. 


150  Dot, 

"  Look,  mother,  that's  were  the  picture  is  to  be," 
gasped  Dot,  finding  breath  and  speech  at  last.  "Oh, 
isn't  it  gr-rand !  And  there's  teacher — that  one 
with Oh,  mother,  he's  comin'  to  spealc  to  ye  1 " 

Sure  enough,  a  gentleman,  whose  face  was  all 
aglow  with  kindness  and  delight,  was  coming 
quickly  towards  them.  "  Well,  Dot,"  he  said, 
"patting  her  kindly  on  the  head,  "isn't  this 
famous  ?  And  you've  brought  mother — that's 
right.  Glad  to  see  you,  Mrs.  Branker,  and  to 
shake  hands  with  a  woman  who,  poor  and  worse 
than  widowed  as  she  was,  did  not  hesitate  to 
burden  herself  with  an  orphan  babe." 

Bess  put  her  red,  coarse  hand  into  his  out- 
stretched one.  It  trembled  in  the  kindly,  cordial 
clasp  it  met,  and  the  tears  stood  in  her  bleared", 
weary-looking  eyes.  "  Eh,  sir,  it's  noan  a  burden, 
but  t'  blessin'  o'  my  loife  yon  choildt's  been  to 
me,"  she  faltered. 

"  I  am  sure  of  it,  Mrs.  Branker,  and  you  will 
say  so  to  all  eternity,  for  by  her  God  is  leading 
you  to  the  Saviour  and  the  Friend  you  so  sorely 
need,"  he  answered. 


^*  Summat  in  W  for  Bess,        151 

"  Mr,  Kay,  Mr.  Kay,"  sounded  on  two  sides  of 
the  room  at  once,  and  with  a  smile  that  beamed 
hope  and  encouragement  into  Bess's  heart  he  left 
them. 

"  Dot's  reet !  Dot's  reel !  Theer's  summat  i'  it 
fur  me  !  "  she  thought  ecstatically.  And  all  through 
the  feast  the  words,  "  By  her  God  is  leading  you  to 
the  Saviour  and  the  Friend  you  so  sorely  need," 
rang  like  music  in  her  ears. 

A  royal  feast  it  seemed  in  ampleness  and  delicacy 
to  the  half-famished  guests,  with  "  ladies  and  gen- 
'lemen  a-waitin'  on  yer  as  if  yer  was  kings  and 
queens,  and  as  if  they  wanted  yer  to  forget  theer 
wur  sich  things  as  Sams  and  drink  and  wretched 
homes  i'  th'  world,"  as  Bess  whispered  to  Dot, 
"  Whatever  maks'  'em  do  it,  Dot  ? " 

"Oh,  mother,  it's  cos  they  love  Jesus,  and 
wants  to  please  Him,"  said  Dot  happily.  "And 
there's  nothin*  as  He  likes  better  nor  to  help 
them  as  conn  a  help  theirsens." 

"  That's  me,"  thought  Bess  ;  "  everythin'  seems 
to  fit  in  fur  me  to-neet." 

Ay,  and  "  thanks  be  unto  God  for  His  unspeak- 


152  Dot. 

able  gift"  of  a  salvation,  fitted,  and  free  as  the  air 
they  breathe,  to  the  most  undeserving,  the  most 
helpless,  the  most  ignorant ;  of  a  Saviour,  Who 
"  was  dead  "  with  the  burden  of  a  world's  sin  upon 
His  guiltless  head,  and  "  is  alive  for  evermore"  to 
"  save  unto  the  uttermost,"  not  by  a  past,  vicarious 
sacrifice  alone,  but  by  the  power  of  a  Risen  and 
Victorious  life,  "  all  that  come  unto  God  by  Him  " 
— everything  did  "fit  in"  for  poor  Bess  Branker 
that  night. 

The  "  old,  old  story,"  simply  and  lovingly  told 
by  lips  and  hearts  fraught  with  the  Spirit's  power, 
and  illustrated  by  pictured  scenes  in  which  Jesus 
moved  as  Helper,  Healer,  Saviour,  Sufferer, 
brought  home  the  glorious  truth  to  her  heart  that 
for  her,  poor  sinful,  ignorant,  hopeless  Bess 
Branker,  there  was  a  Father,  a  Friend,  a  Home, 
in  Heaven. 

Anxious  questionings  and  doubtful  thoughts 
were  met  and  slain  one  by  one  as  they  rose 
in  her  breast,  and  the  close  of  that  happy  evening 
found  Bess,  careless  of  observers  and  hearers, 
weeping   floods   of  happy  penitential    tears,  and 


* Sumptat  in  it"  for  Bess.        153 

exclaiming  with  raptured  lips,  "  It's  a*  fur  me  ; 
bless  the  Lord,  it's  a*  fur  me  I  Oh,  whoi  didna 
aw  know  it  afore  ? " 

Why?  She  was  "in  want,"  and  "no  man 
gave  unto  her,"  "poor,  and  maimed,  and  blind," 
and  no  servant  went  into  "  the  streets  and  lanes 
of  the  city "  to  bring  her  in  to  the  Master's  wait- 
ing feast. 

Until  then.  Blessed  "until"  of  the  Seeking 
Shepherd,  who  goes  after  that  which  is  lost,  until 
He  find  it." 


I 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

BESS  DOES  "  WHAT  SHE  COULD.^ 

T  was  another  woman  that  went  home  that 
night  in  the  patched,  weather-stained  gown, 
and  clattering  clogs,  and  tattered  shawl  and  apron, 
through  the  snowy  streets  to  the  fireless  room 
in  the  dreary  court ;  for  poor  Bess  Branker  was 
henceforth  a  new  creature  in  Christ  Jesus  ! 

The  work  was  deep  and  real ;  Bess's  faith  was 
simple  as  a  child's,  and  her  whole  heart  went  out 
in  love  and  trust  to  Him  who  had  done  so  much 
for  her.  Had  done  ?  Yes,  and  was  doing.  "  Out 
of  the  mouth  of  babes  and  sucklings  hast  Thou 
perfected  praise."  And  poor,  ignorant  Bess  had 
grasped,  with  the  simplicity  of  unquestioning  faith, 
the  glorious  truth  that  so  many  more  privileged 
children  of  the  Kingdom  miss,  or  at  least  fail  to 
realize,  that  Jesus  not  only  died  but  lives  to  save. 


156  Dot. 

Strong  in  this  faith,  she  set  herself  to  the  else 
impossible  task  of  vanquishing  her  old  evil  habit. 
How  hard  that  task  was  it  is,  perhaps,  hardly 
possible  to  realize.  She  was  as  we  have  said, 
what  with  toil  and  hardship  and  excess,  old  before 
her  time ;  in  a  state  of  health,  moreover,  in  which, 
in  easy  circumstances,  she  would  have  been  for- 
bidden to  leave  the  house.  Rheumatic  and 
bronchial,  it  was  suffering  to  her  to  encounter 
raw  fogs,  and  biting  winds,  and  driving  rain,  let 
alone  to  struggle  against  them  laden  beyond  her 
strength.  No  hope  of  comfort  at  the  end  of  a 
day's  toil  sustained  her.  Temptation  beset  her 
at  every  turn.  Old  companions  met  her  with 
well-meant  offers  of  "  treating,"  or  keen-pointed 
jibes  and  jeers.  The  hot  tea,  or  soup,  or  cocoa, 
which  sometimes  stood  her  in  good  stead,  were  in 
most  districts  unattainable  to  her,  never  but  once 
bestowed  by  kindly  household  hands.  And  Sam, 
roused  to  fury  by  opposition,  often  thrashed  her 
soundly  for  refusing  to  share  what  he  else  had 
fought  to  retain. 

But  through  all  He  in  Whose  living  love  and 


Bess  does  ''what  she  could.''       157 

power  she  trusted  brought  her  victorious  day  by 
day.  "  Aw  jist  look  oop  to  th'  Lord,  and  He 
heartens  me,"  was  her  simple  explanation  of  the 
prodigy  to  tliose  who  wondered  and  questioned. 
"  Toime  wur  when  aw  thowt  t'  drink  wur  my  best 
friend,  and  theers  mony  as  thinks  t'  same,  but 
eh-h-h,  lad,  they'm  out  on  it !  Aw  know  better 
now — theer's  One  as  give  His  precious  loife- 
blood  fur  me,  and  aw  want  no  heartenin'  now 
but  His  loove,  and  His  presence  i'  my  heart, 
and  his  smoile  boy-and-boy,  when  He  calls  me 
whoam  oop  yon,  and  happen  says  to  me,  as  He 
did  to  t'  poor  sinful  lass  as  poured  her  sweet- 
stooff  over  His  blessed  feet  o'  earth,  'Tha's  done 
what  tha'  could,  Bess  ! ' "  And  the  mocking  jeer 
was  silenced,  and  the  wonder  grew  deeper,  and 
into  many  a  rough  heart  the  conviction  sank, 
"There  must  be  something  in  it." 

The  weeks  that  passed  so,  in  spite  of  increased 
sufferings  from  cold  and  hunger,  and  mcreased 
brutality  from  Sam,  were  very  happy  ones  to  Dot. 
Bess's  growing  feebleness  made  it  absolutely 
needful  that  she  should  accompany  her  on  her 


158  Dot. 

rounds,  and  to  be  alone  together  made  up  for 
much  to  both  of  them.  And  Sara  was  often  out 
in  the  evenings ;  stolid  and  unsocial  of  nature,  so 
long  as  fire  and  drink  and  tobacco  were  forth- 
coming in  sufficient  quantity  in  his  own  quarters 
he  cared  for  nothing  further ;  but  of  late  he  had 
been  driven  to  look  up  his  old  "pals."  This 
gave  Bess  and  Dot  many  a  quiet  hour  of  loving 
talk  together  —  hours  embalmed  in  life-long 
memory  by  Dot.  The  child  was  the  teacher, 
in  that  she  retailed  all  that  she  heard  at  school, 
but  Bess  was  a  wonderfully  apt  scholar,  and  her 
faith  and  love  and  joy  grew  stronger  every  day. 

Alas  for  Dot !  her  bodily  strength  decayed  as 
fast.  But  neither  of  them  thought  how  near  she 
was  to  the  home  "up  yon,"  of  whose  beauties 
and  glories  Bess  loved  to  talk,  and  Dot  to  sing. 
The  one  was  inured  to  suffering,  the  other  a  child, 
inexperienced  and  hopeful. 

It  was  a  Sunday  evening  in  February,  cold  and 
frosty.  Bess  was  sitting,  as  she  had  sat  on  the 
last  evening  of  the  old  year  and  of  her  old  life,  on 
the  broken  box  before  a  handful  of  dying  embers, 


Bess  does  ''what  she  cozcld"       159 

her  elbows  on  her  knees,  her  head  upon  her 
hands.  But,  ah !  how  changed  was  the  face 
which  from  time  to  time  she  raised  with  a  bright, 
upward  look  of  love  and  trust,  from  the  bruised 
and  flushed  and  hopeless  one  she  had  turned 
then  on  Dot.  Coarse  it  was  still,  and  bronzed 
and  blowzed  above  its  haggard  pallor,  but  like 
the  pure  frosty  sunlight  through  the  grimed 
window-panes,  the  spirit,  purified  by  heavenly 
love  and  faith,  shone  through  the  defacing  stains 
of  sin  and  sorrow,  and  made  it  a  pleasant  and 
a  wondrous  sight.  All  bent  and  drooped  as  she 
sat,  the  very  bearing  of  her  body  was  chang-d. 
Weakness  and  suiTering  were  in  it,  but  not  de- 
spondency. 

Suddenly  she  roused  herself.  "  T'  soon's  gone 
from  t'  window,"  she  said  aloud,  "  t'  choildt  '11  be 
whoam  soon,"  and  rising  she  put  the  few  remain- 
ing bits  of  coal  and  the  kettle  on  the  fire.  Tlien 
she  sank  down  gasping  and  strangely  faint.  "  Av/ 
conna  think  what's  a-coom;n'  to  me,"  she  panted. 
"  Aw'm  wikker  nor  a  cat."  Then  her  face  chang  d 
with  the  shock  and  awe  of  a  sudden  thoujrht. 


i6o  Dot. 

"  Bin  aw  goin'  to  dee  ?  "  she  questioned.  "  Hap- 
pen aw  am ! " 

She  thought  a  moment,  then  looked  up  with 
brightening  face,  "  To  dee  !  that's  to  go  whoam  to 
Thee,  Lord !  Eh-h-h,  but  Tha  knows  aw'd  be 
rare  and  glad,  but — theer's  Dot." 

Yes,  there  was  Dot.  And  there  she  was  coming 
in  with  pinched,  white  face,  and  shining,  loving 
eyes.  "  Oh,  mother,  I  have  such  a  beautiful  story 
to  tell  thee,  and  I  can  sing  all — but  tha  looks — 
queer,  mother ! " 

"  Ay,  aw'n  had  a  bit  o*  a  faint  turn,  but  aw'm 
a'  reet  now,"  said  Bess,  with  a  keen  pang  at  her 
heart.  "  We'n  ha'  a  coop  o*  tay  i'  coomfort  afore 
Sam  cooms,  and  then  tha  shall  tell  me  thi  story. 
Eh,  my  blessin',  my  blessin',  whatud  aw  do  wi'out 
Him  as  Tha's  led  me  to  now?"  she  exclaimed, 
fervently,  as  Dot  knelt  beside  her  and  looked  into 
lier  haggard  face  with  anxious,  loving  eyes. 

"  Why  fur  does  tha  say  '  now '  like  that, 
mother  ?  "  she  asked  fearfully. 

Bess  could  not  find  the  heart  to  tell  her.  "  It'll 
coom  to  her  i'   toime,  poor  lamb,"  she  thought 


Bess  does  **  what  she  coidd."       i6i 

sorrowfully,  "  and  happen  He'll  leave  me  wi'  her 
a  bit  longer  nor  I  think."  So  she  fenced  Dot's 
question  with  fond  words  and  caresses. 

They  had  their  tea — a  poor  and  scanty  meal  it 
was ;  but  love  was  there  and  made  it  a  feast  tc 
both.  Then  they  blew  out  the  candle,  and  sa: 
close  together  in  the  darkness  by  the  dull  and 
dying  fire,  and  Dot  told  her  "  beautiful  story  " — 
that  of  the  poor  sinful  woman  dragged  before 
Jesus  by  fierce  accusers  who  thirsted  for  her 
blood,  and  bidden  by  Him  to  "go,  and  sin  no 
more." 

Bess  listened  with  streaming  tears.  "  Eh,  but 
it  wur  jest  loike  Him,"  she  said.  "And  oo 
wouldna  sin  no  more.  Dot  ?  Oo  couldna,  oh,  oo 
couldna  I  T'  stones  them  cruel  men  ud  fain  ha' 
throwed  ud  ha'  crooshed  oo's  poor  body,  but 
eh-h-h,  them  words  and  looks  o'  forgivin*  loov 
ud  break  her  heart !     Oo  coiddna  sin  no  more  1 " 

Then  Dot  sang  her  newly-mastered  hymn,  "We 
speak  of  the  realms  of  the  blest."  And  then  they 
talked  together  of  "  what  it  must  be  to  be  there  I " 

It  was  yet  early  in  the  evening  when  Sam  came 

II 


1 62  Dot. 

in.  He  swore  at  the  dark  and  fireless  state  of 
the  room,  rather  as  a  matter  of  course  than  from 
special  ill-humour,  for  when  Dot  tremblingly  lit 
the  candle,  he  appeared  elate  and  unwontedly 
gracious.  Setting  a  quart  bottle  of  spirits  and  a 
thick  twist  of  tobacco  on  the  table,  he  dived  into 
his  pockets,  and  to  Dot's  amazement  produced  a 
handful  of  money.  "  Here,  Dot,  tak'  th'  box  an 
ax  Mrs.  Flanagan  t'  obleege  us  wi'  a  bit  o'  coal," 
he  said,  flinging  her  a  two-shilling-piece,  "and 
get's  a  froi*  o'  bacon  from  Moll  Danks's,  oo's 
oppen  yet — a  good  un,  moind,  and  a  fresh  loaf, 
and  we'n  a'  ha'  a  good  soopper," 

Dot  obeyed  with  equal  wonder  and  alacrity ; 
her  conscience  had  not  yet  been  exercised  on  the 
subject  of  Sunday  trading. 

Then  he  turned  to  Bess :  "  Cheer  oop,  owd  lass, 
Aw'n  had  a  good  haul,  and  aw'll  go  whacks  wi' 
thee."  And  he  held  out  to  her  one  of  the  many 
sovereigns  he  had  in  his  hand. 

But  Bess  did  not  offer  to  take  it,  "  Tha's  noan 
coom  by  it  honest,  Sam,"  she  said,  in  a  troubled 
voice. 


Bess  does  ''what  she  coiddr       163 

"What's  that  to  thee  ?"  he  retorted  sullenly. 

"  It's  this,  Sam,  as  avv'd  rather  dee  nor  touch  a 
penny  of  it,  if  it  isna." 

"What's  tha  mean,  tha  fou'?"  roared  Sam, 
in  sudden  passion. 

"Aw  dunno'  mean  t'  anger  thee,  Sam;  tha 
means  koind  fur  once,"  said  poor  broken  Bess, 
trembling  before  her  tyrant.  "  But  if  tha  got  yon 
brass  by  sin,  as  aw'm  weliy  sure  tha  has,  it  ud 
be  sin  i'  me  to  share  it  wi'  thee ;  and  aw  conna 
sin  no  more,  oh,  aw  conna,  Sam — fur " 

"Tak'  that  i'stead,  then,"  said  the  embruted 
wretch,  dealing  a  blow  that  felled  her  to  the 
floor. 

Over  the  scene  that  followed  we  draw  a  veil. 
Suffice  it  to  say  that  when  poor  Dot  came  panting 
and  bright-faced  in,  laden  with  the  coals  and  pro- 
visions, she  found  her  poor  mother  stretched 
bleeding  and  senseless  on  the  floor. 

She  knew  better  than  attempt  to  go  near  her 
till  Sam's  fury  had  abated  and  his  wants  were 
supplied.  Bess  was  conscious  by  then,  and 
smiled  at  her,  and  signed  to  her  to  make  no  fuss, 


164  Dot. 

and  go  and  eat  her  supper.  Dot  obeyed,  but 
with  a  very  sick  heart. 

After  a  time  Bess  raised  herself,  wiped  the 
blood  from  her  face,  and  with  Dot's  help  got  into 
bed.  She  was  sick  and  faint  and  shivering,  but 
cheered  Dot  with  the  whispered  assurance  she 
should  be  "  a'  reet  i'  th'  mornin'."  They  dared 
not  talk,  and  as  Bess  seemed  comfortable  and 
sleepy,  Dot  soon  stole  away  to  her  heap  of  straw 
in  the  opposite  corner. 

But  often  as  just  such  a  thing  had  happened 
before.  Dot  was  uneasy  and  could  not  sleep, 
though  Bess  seemed  to  do  so,  and  soundly.  Long 
after  Sam,  having  drunk  himself  drunk,  had  flung 
himself  down  and  sunk  into  safe  unconsciousness, 
she  lay  awake,  wishing,  with  strange  and  growing 
intensity,  that  her  mother  would  move  and  speak 
to  her. 

At  last  she  could  bear  it  no  longer,  and  spring- 
ing up,  crossed  the  room,  dimly  lighted  still  by  a 
few  red  embers.  "How  art  tha  now,  mother?" 
she  whispered,  leaning  cautiously  over  and  touch- 
ing her. 


Bess  does  ^'what  site  couldy       165 

There  was  no  answer.  Dot  called  again  and 
again.     Still  no  answer. 

"Whatever  makes  her  sleep  so  sound;  she's 
had  no  drink?"  she  cried,  in  sick  and  sudden 
terror,  "Mother,  mother,  mother!"  Her  voice 
rose  to  a  wail,  all  fear  of  Sam  forgotten  in  the 
strange  and  deadly  dread  that  seized  her. 

But  there  was  no  answer;  for  Bess  knew 
"what  it  was  to  be  there P* 


CHAPTER    XX. 

THE    DARK  HOURS    BEFORE    THE    DAWN. 

'\/'^ES,  poor  Bess  was  "gone,"  as  t'.  e  neighbour, 
•^  dragged  from  her  bed  b}^  Dot,  declared,  to 
the  poor  child's  bitter  and  bewildered  grief — gone 
from  that  wretched  garret-room  to  the  fair,  sweet 
home  "up  yon!" — gone  from  brutal  Sam,  and 
pain,  and  toil,  and  temptation,  to  the  joy-giving 
presence  of  the  King — gone,  too,  from  poor  little 
Dot! 

Poor,  poor  little  Dot !  Words  cannot  picture 
the  bitterness  of  her  grief  and  desolation.  No  one 
took  much  heed  of  her.  Untimely  care  and 
suffering  had  taught  her  self-control  unnatural  to 
her  age,  and  she  shrank,  as  a  suffering  animal 
shrinks  from  observation,  from  the  rude  attempts 
at  consolation  made  by  the  rough  beings  around. 


1 68  Dot. 

Poor  Bess  was  buried  without  much  ado,  the 
dispensary  doctor,  from  whom  she  from  time  to 
time  had  had  medicine,  certifying  that  she  suffered 
from  mortal  disease,  and  holding  that  the  violence, 
of  which  visible  token  was  left,  had  had  no  part 
in  her  death.  Sam,  overjoyed  by  an  escape  which 
his  guilty  conscience  told  him  he  little  deserved, 
buried  her  decently  with  part  of  his  ill-gotten 
gains,  and  held  a  carouse  to  her  memory  in  the 
room  for  which  the  lodging-keeper  had  wisely 
exacted  a  month's  rent  in  advance. 

Dot  had  little  to  suffer  from  him  but  neglect, 
and  the  horror  and  hatred  she  felt  of  his  presence, 
so  long  as  his  money  lasted.  But  that  gone,  a 
terrible  life  began  for  her.  There  was  no  one  now 
to  help  her  to  work  out  his  requirements,  to  come 
between  her  and  his  savage  and  senseless  anger. 
It  was  no  uncommon  thing  for  her,  after  spending 
the  day  fasting,  in  vain  hopes  of  being  able  to 
scrape  together  the  stipulated  sum,  to  go  home  at 
midnight,  her  task  undone,  too  glad  if  only  she 
might  escape  cruel  abuse  and  blows,  by  creeping 
exhausted  and  supperless  to  bed.     But  this  was 


The  Dark  Hours  before  the  Dawn.   169 

Ido  seldom,  as  the  bruises  on  her  poor  little 
emaciated  body  testified. 

It  may  be  wondered  that  she  did  not  attempt 
to  emulate  Joey  Winter's  example,  and  provide  for 
herself  such  food  and  shelter  as  she  could.  But 
childhood  is  pitifully  dependent,  and  clings  instinc- 
tively to  the  merest  semblance  of  protection  and 
support.  That  wretched  room  was  home  to  Dot, 
endeared  by  many  a  memory,  and  she  never 
thought  of  leaving  it,  save  for  the  one  "  up  yon" 
where  Bess  was  gone. 

But,  oh,  how  she  longed  to  be  there!  How  she 
prayed  to  Jesus  to  take  her  there,  soon,  soon! 
How  she  hoped  for  and  expected  the  answer 
night  by  night  as  she  lay  down,  weaker,  fainter, 
sadder  than  ever  before,  and  fell  asleep  watching 
for  the  angel  that  Jesus  would  surely,  oh,  surely 
send  at  last ! 

But  morning  after  morning  dawned  upon  her 
through  the  grimed  window  of  the  wretched  room, 
stripped  now  of  everything  that  would  either  sell 
or  burn.  For  a  time  she  bore  up  bravely.  But 
gradually  the  sickness  of  hope  deferred  stole  over 


170  Dot. 

her  heart,  and  then  cruel  doubts  and  dreary  ques- 
tionings arose.  Did  Jesus  hear  ?  Did  He  know  ? 
Did  He  care  ? 

To  add  to  her  sorrows,  kind  Mr.  Kay  was  ill, 
and  his  place  supplied  by  one  whose  manner 
was  little  calculated  to  win  the  hearts  or  rule  the 
spirits  of  the  wayward  imps  he  would  fain  have 
helped  and  taught.  Consequently  the  class  was 
in  confusion ;  and  the  teacher,  angered  and  stern, 
confused  the  innocent  with  the  guilty,  and  poor 
little  reluctant,  sorrowful  Dot,  pushed  and  pinched 
by  her  obstreperous  fellows,  came  in  for  sharp 
rebuke  instead  of  comfort. 

Poor,  little,  desolate,  uncomforted,  uncared-for 
child !  no  wonder  the  terrible  conviction  that  she 
had  made  a  mistake  somehow  overwhelmed  her  at 
times,  though  in  the  main  she  clung  with  desperate 
persistency  to  her  faith  and  hope  in  Jesus. 

"  Happen  He  hasn't  got  my  place  quite  ready 
yet,  and  in  course  He  won't  take  me  till  it  is.  I 
never  liked  mother  to  come  home  till  I'd  got  t* 
room  nice  and  straight,  however  sorry  I  was  for 
her  to  be  out  i'  th'  cold  and  rain,"  she  would  tell 


The  Dark  Hours  before  ike  Dawn.   171 

herself,  with  the  ch.ld-logic  that  is  so  simple  and 
so  true. 

So  the  time  went  on.  March  was  going  out 
in  brilliant  sunshine  and  biting  winds — pleasant 
to  the  healthy  and  well-dressed,  perilous  to  the 
feeble  and  ill-clad.  Dot  was  very  weak  by  now  ; 
her  bare,  tender  feet  could  scarcely  carry  her; 
her  limbs  were  numbed  with  the  piercing  wind ; 
and  her  chance  among  her  boisterous  fellow- 
vendors  was  less  than  ever. 

She  sank  down  one  evening,  giddy  and  faint, 
upon  a  grid  from  which  a  welcome  warmth  and 
odour  rose.  But  almost  at  the  moment  a  dreaded 
grasp  was  on  her  shoulder,  a  voice,  terrible  in  her 
ears,  bade  her  "move  on."  She  started  up  in 
terror,  and  staggered  giddily  against  a  boy  clad  in 
red  uniform,  with  papers  under  his  arm,  who  had 
paused  on  seeing  her  in  the  policeman's  grip. 

He  caught  and  steadied  her  kindly  enough. 
"Why,  it's  never  Dot  Branker  !"  he  exclaimed,  as 
she  turned  her  pinched  white  face  and  great  dark- 
lashed  eyes  upon  him — to  recognize  in  him  the 
boy  who  had  helped  Bess  with  her  basket  up  the 


172  Dot. 

stairs  on  the  fatal  day  of  Sam's  return,  and 
who,  according  to  her  promise,  Bess  had  "  remem- 
bered" with  many  a  kindness  after. 

"Yes,  but  it  is  though,"  gasped  Dot.  "Oh, 
Phil,  don't  let  t'  bobby  take  me ;  I've  done  nowt." 
"  I'm  sure  ycu  haven't,  and  see — he's  gone ; 
you  were  in  people's  way,  you  know,  that's 
all.  But  how  bad  and  miserable  you  look,  Dot  1 
Whatever's  come  to  you?" 

"Oh,  mother's  dead,"  sobbed  Dot,  "and  Sam's 
fearful  bad  to  me — beats  and  starves  me.     I've 
had  nowt  but  a  candle  since  breakfast  yesterday." 
'  A  candle .?" 

"  Ay,  a  candle ;  it  wur  nasty,  but  there  wur 
nowt  else,  and  I  wur  welly  clemmed.  It  wur 
late,"  she  continued  apologetically,  "  nigh  eleven 
when  I  got  in,  and  Sam,  he  just  ketched  up  my 
brass  and  off  wi'  him  to  t'  ginshop,  and  I'd  had 
nowt  all  day  for  fear  o'  going  home  short,  and 
theer  wur  a  candle  burning  i'  a  bottle,  and  another 
lyin'  by,  an'  I  eat  it,  Phil,*  and,  oh,  Sam  did  beat 

me  for  it  I" 

»A  fact. 


The  Dark  Hours  before  tfie  Dawn.  173 

**The  brute!"  exclaimed  Phil,  grinding  his 
teeth.  Dot  and  he  had  been  great  friends  once. 
"Whatever  do  you  stay  with  him  for,  Dot  ?  He's 
not  your  father." 

"  No  ;  but  I've  nowhere  else  to  go,  Phil." 

"  Why,  they'd  take  ye  into  the  Home.  Wouldn't 
ye  like  to  go  ?  " 

"What  Home?"  asked  puzzled  Dot  "Up 
yon,  where  Jesus  and  mother  is  ?  " 

"  No,  the  Home  for  Destitute  Children.  Why, 
it  ud  be  the  very  thing  for  ye,  Dot.  Haven't 
you  never  heard  of  it  ? " 

"No,"  said  Dot  wearily,  and  her  eyelids  drooped. 

"  Why,  I  believe  ye're  just  ready  to  faint  I " 
exclaimed  Phil.  "  Hold  up  a  bit,  my  dear,  and 
I'll  stand  ye  a  cup  of  hot  coffee  and  a  bun  with 
r.iy  own  money — earned  honestly,  too;  so  come 
along,"  and  he  put  his  arm  round  the  frail  little 
sinking  figure  and  supported  her  into  a  shop. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

GOD'S  ANGEL  SENT  A  T  LAST. 

•"  I  'HE  hot  coffee  was  just  what  Dot  needed, 
and  soon  brought  back  the  colour  to  her 
white  hps  and  the  Hght  to  her  hollow  eyes.  They 
turned  very  gratefully  on  Phil  then.  "  Tha  was 
al'as  good  to  me,"  she  said.  "  But  it's  a  long 
time  since  I've  seen  thee,  Phil." 

"  Yes,  it  is ;  but  if  I'd  known  you  were  in  such 
trouble,  I'd  have  looked  you  up  before,  for  I'm 
not  afraid  to  go  anywhere  now,  Dot ; "  and  he 
drew  himself  up  proudly. 

"Tha  does  look  nice,  Phil,"  said  Dot,  looking 
admiringly  at  his  neat,  comfortable  dress,  and 
bright  rosy  face.  "  And  happy,  too,"  she  added, 
with  a  sigh. 

"  And    I  am     happy,    Dot,"   he  said  joyfully ; 


176  Dot. 

"for  I've  got  a  fresh  start  in  life.*  I'll  make  a  man 
of  myself  yet,  with  God's  help.  You  know  what 
a  bad  boy  I  was,  Dot,  and  how  your  poor  mother 
used  to  warn  me  I  should  come  to  a  bad  end  ? 
And  so  I  should,  but  for  Mr.  Saville ;  for  I'd  got 
hard  and  reckless  like.  .  You  see  nobody  had  ever 
cared  over-much  for  me ;  father  was  so  drunken — 
and  mother — she  was  not  my  own  mother,  you 
know — so  hard  and  grudgin' ;  and  when,  led  on 
by  books  as  I  had  read,  which  made  a  free  life 
seem  a  fine  thing,  I  ran  away,  they  and  all  my 
friends  turned  their  backs  on  me.  I  got  among  a 
bad  lot,  and  took  to  thievin'  and  gamblin',  and  all 
sorts  of  wickedness.  The  worst  was,  as  I  think 
now,  that  I'd  a  face  and  way  that  people  trusted, 
and  I  was  so  sharp  and  cunning  that  they  were 
long  in  finding  me  out.  But  I  always  was  found 
out  at  last,  and  at  last  I  had  to  hide  in  the  worst 
slums  and  sometimes  to  sleep  in  the  streets  for 
fear  of  being  taken  up.  That  was  why  I  never 
came  to  see  you.  Dot,  or  your  mother  as  was  so 

•  Phil  records  the  actual  experience  of  a  boy  rescued  by  the 
Manchester  Childrens'  Aid  Society. 


God's  Angel  sent  at  last.         177 

kind  to  me.  Old  Moll  Danks  had  caught  me 
robbing  her  till,  and  I  dursn't  pass  her  shop  till 
I'd  paid  her  up — which,  thank  God,  I  have  done 
now, — only  last  week,  though.  Well,  I  was  about 
as  wretched  and  as  hopeless  and  as  wicked  as  a 
boy  could  be,  when  I  heard  of  Mr.  Saville  bein* 
such  a  friend  of  poor  outcast  lads.  I  didn't  think 
it  would  be  much  good,  but  I  went  and  made  a 
clean  breast  of  it  to  him.  And  oh,  Dot,  he  might 
have  been  my  father,  he  was  that  kind  and 
tender !  He  took  me  into  the  News  Brigade,  and 
told  me  as  he  trusted  me  because  I  was  a  bad  boy 
whom  nobody  else  could  trust !  And  I  vowed  in 
my  heart  that  he  should  never  repent  it,  and  I 
know  now  he  never  will,  f)r  I've  found  my 
Saviour  since,  and  know  He'll  give  me  grace  to 
stand ;  and  I'm  makin'  a  good  livin'  now,  and 
lookin*  to  do  better  still ; — but  here  I'm  stoppin' 
talkin*  at  the  best  sellin'-time  of  the  day.  You 
go  straight  home  now,  Dot ;  you're  not  fit  to  be 
in  the  streets;  and  take  another  bun  to  eat  as  you 
go  along.  There,  keep  up  your  heart,  you  poor 
little   dear,   for    I'll  tell    Mr.   Saville   about  you. 

12 


178  Dot. 

You  live  at  the  old  place  yet,  I  s'pose?"  he 
turned  back  to  ask :  "  All  right  I "  and  with  a 
cheery  nod  and  smile  he  left  her. 

Dot  went  her  way  cheered  and  comforted  by 
the  pleasant  food  and  Phil's  kindness,  but  she 
still  felt  strangely  tired  and  weak  and  dreamy, 
and  turned  mechanically  homeward,  as  Phil  had 
bidden  her — a  thing  she  would  hardly  have  dared 
to  do  had  not  her  senses  been  partially  benumbed 
by  cold  and  weakness. 

In  her  faintness  she  had  hardly  taken  in  the 
meaning  of  Phil's  words  about  a  home  into  which 
she  could  be  received,  and  his  parting  promise, 
"I'll  tell  Mr.  Saville  about  you,"  which  meant 
everything  of  hope  and  comfort  and  assurance  to 
him,  meant  almost  nothing  to  her.  At  least  she 
did  not  think  about  it,  or,  indeed,  about  anything 
but  getting  out  of  the  cruel  wind,  and  laying  her 
little  aching  limbs  to  rest  in  the  comparative 
warmth  of  indoors. 

When  at  last  she  crept  wearily  into  the  court 
it  was  all  astir.  Unkempt  men  and  frowsy  women 
and  eager-faced  children  were  gathered  at  every 


**j<eRe's  >A-q^o  Doj. 


God's  Angel  sent  at  last.  179 

door  and  window  with  excited  looks  and  busy 
tongues.  Something  had  evidently  happened — 
what,  poor  listless  Dot  would  not  have  paused  to 
ask,  but  no  sooner  did  the  children,  her  subjects 
in  happier  days,  her  tormentors  in  these,  catch 
sight  of,  than  they  surrounded  her. 

"Here's  a  go.  Dot,"  cried  one.  "Thi  feyther's 
tooked  up,"  shouted  another.  "  Ketched  like  a 
rat  i'  a  trap,"  exulted  another.  "  For  breakin' 
in,"  explained  another.  "And  oo'll  get  his  four- 
teen years  sartin,"  promised  another.  "Arn't 
tha  glad?"  "Arn't  tha  sorry.  Dot?"  "And 
what'll  tha  do  now,  Miss  Branker?"  vociferated 
the  rest. 

Poor  Dot  stood  helpless  and  bewildered  in  their 
midst  till  a  woman  came  to  her  rescue  "  Let  t' 
poor  lass  aloan ;  it's  noan  her  faut,"  she  said, 
scattering  them  right  and  left.  "Ne'er  tha  moind, 
my  lass ;  tha'll  be  better  off  in  t'  workhouse  than 
wi'  him,  that  tha  will,"  she  added  for  comfort. 

The  workhouse  !  That  was  a  name  of  horror 
to  Dot,  made  so  by  pauper-bred  Bess. 

She  turned  silently  away,  and  crept  unmolested 


i8o  Dot. 

up  the  stairs,  though  she  had  to  pass  the  lodging- 
keeper  in  the  doorway.  Bridget  Flanagan  had  a 
softer  heart  than  Mrs.  Weeks.  "  Sure  an'  she'll 
have  to  go  to  the  workhouse,  poor  little  crayther," 
she  heard  her  say.  "  But  oi'll  let  her  be  for  the 
noight." 

The  workhouse  again  I  Poor  Dot  gave  a  great 
tearless  sob  and  passed  on. 

She  went  into  the  empty,  fireless  room,  almost 
dark,  for  the  clear  March  twilight  could  not  pierce 
the  thick  griminess  of  the  few  remaining  window- 
panes,  and  shut  the  door  upon  herself.  A  sense 
of  utter  desolation  was  upon  her.  "  Oh,  mother, 
mother,  mother ! "  she  sobbed,  "  how  could  tha 
go  and  leave  me  all  alone  I " 

For  a  time  she  wept  with  a  bitter  hopelessness 
of  passion  which  exhausted  her,  but  by  degrees 
her  tears  grew  soft  and  healing. 

Dirty,  ragged,  ignorant,  uncared-for  child  as  she 
was,  in  her  little  believing  heart— oh,  wondrous 
condescension  ! — dwelt  the  Spirit  of  the  living 
God,  the  Comforter ;  and  His  still  small  whispers 
brought  to   her  remembrance   Jesus — Jesus   the 


GocCs  Angel  sent  at  la^t,  i8l 

loving  One,  the  pitying  One,  the  unrejecting  One, 
the  all- knowing  and  all-caring  One  I  Jesus  who 
was  dead  and  is  alive  I 

Back  over  her  little  chilled  heart  rushed  the 
ebbed  tide  of  love  and  faith,  and  the  holy  watch- 
ing eyes,  from  whose  gaze  earth's  night  and 
darkness  hid  her  not,  saw  sweet  smiles  flit 
around  the  cold,  blue  lips,  and  hope-lights  gleam 
in  the  great  tear-drowned  eyes. 

Soon  she  rose,  and,  kneeling  as  she  had  knelt 
for  her  first  prayer  on  the  slushy  pavement  of  the 
court,  and  so  often,  often  since,  with  clasped 
hands  and  upturned,  imploring  face,  she  prayed, 
"  O  Lord  Jesus,  please  let  me  come  home  to 
Thee  and  mother.  To-neet,  Lord,  please  to-neet ; 
for  Tha  knows  as  Sam's  took  up  and  I  conna 
stay  here  no  longer,  and  they'll  send  me  to  t* 
workus  to-morrow.  So  please,  oh,  please,  Lord 
Jesus,  send  th'  angel  for  me  to-neet  1" 

The  little  plaintive  voice  ceased.  Dot  had 
said  her  say.  But  for  a  moment  or  two  she  knelt 
on.  Then  she  sprang  up  with  a  sudden  rapturous 
cry,  "He  will  I  He  will!  I  feel  it  i'  my  heart!" 


1 82  Dot. 

she  exclaimed.  "  Oh,  how  good  He  is !  He 
knows  I  conna  bear  no  more !  It's  been  awful 
hard — but  it's  all  over  now  ! " 

"All  over  now,"  she  repeated,  as  she  laid 
herself  down,  and  shivering,  drew  up  the  dirty 
sack  that  was  her  only  covering,  "All  but 
waitin'  a  bit  till  t'  angel  comes.  And  then — oh, 
wofCi  it  be  nice  to  be  there  ?  " 

Yes,  little  Dot,  it  was  all  over  now !  Love 
and  home  were  waiting  you.  Even  then  God's 
messenger  was  taking  the  orders  of  the  King  to 
"  bring  you  in." 

But  not  to  the  home  "  up  yon  "  yet. 

An  hour  or  two  later  Dot  was  roused  from  a 
sleep — into  which  she  had  sunk  while  happily, 
hopefully  waiting  for  the  angel — by  the  flash  of  a 
light  upon  her  eyes.  She  started  up  eagerly,  but, 
half-fearful  of  what  she  might  see,  covered  her 
dazzled  eyes. 

"  Do  not  be  frightened,  my  dear,"  said  a  kind, 
soft  voice ;  "  I  am  come  to  take  you  away  to  a 
happy  home,  where  you  will  be  loved  and  cared 
for,  and  never  be  cold  or  hungry  again." 


God's  Angel  sent  at  last.  183 

Dot  looked  up  then,  reassured ;  for  the  voice 
was  only  something  like  Mr.  Kay's,  and  when  she 
looked  into  the  face  that  was  bending  over  her,  it 
was  just  like  a  gentleman's,  and  the  light  that  had 
dazzled  her  looked  very  like  a  tallow  dip  ! 

But  Dot  was  not  all  at  once  disillusioned. 
"  Please,  sir,  are  you  God's  angel  ?  "  she  asked 
timidly. 

The  gentleman  was  startled.  For  the  moment 
he  thought  Dot  was  delirious.  But  her  large 
earnest  eyes  were  clear  and  rational,  and  the 
cheek  and  hand  he  hastily  touched  were  flabby 
and  cold.  "  I  am  God's  servant^  at  any  rate,  my 
poor  child,"  he  answered.  *'  He  has  sent  me  to 
help  you.     But  why  do  you  ask  that  ?  " 

Dot  told  him,  and  as  use  brightened  her  half- 
numbed  faculties,  and  she  became  conscious  that 
beside  the  stranger  stood  Phil  Day,  triumphant 
and  smiling,  her  voice  took  an  unmistakable  tone 
of  disappointment. 

Her  new  friend  noted  it,  and  answered  her 
plaintive  conclusion,  "And  I  thought  He  would  !" 
spoken  with  brimming  eyes,  by  saying,  "  And  so 


J  84  Dot, 

He  has  Dot.  Not  just  as  you  expected,  but  as 
He  thought  best.  Instead  of  an  angel  He  has 
sent  a  servant ;  and  instead  of  taking  you  to  the 
eternal  home  where  He  and  your  mother  are,  He 
is  sending  you  to  an  earthly  one  where  you  will 
be  very  happy — won't  she,  Phil  ?  " 

"  I  should  think  so  !  "  answered  Phil,  with  en- 
thusiasm, and  a  nod  and  a  smile  at  Dot. 

"And  where  you  will  be  taught  to  do  some- 
thing for  Jesus  who  has  done  so  much  for  you," 
Mr.  Saville  continued,  "  and  grow  up  a  good  and 
happy  woman,  blessed  and  a  blessing.  You  will 
like  that,  won't  you,  Dot  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir ;  oh  yes  1 "  she  ansv/ered  earnestly. 
Then  looking  up  with  dawning  confidence  into 
her  new  friend's  face,  she  said  tremulously, 
"  Mother  used  to  call  me  her  little  blessing.' 

"  Did  she  ?  That  was  nice  !  Well,  little  Dot, 
I  think  Jesus  means  you  to  be  somebody  else's 
blessing,  so  we  must  take  care  of  you  for  Him." 

"  Somebody  else's  blessing  I  "  The  words  sank 
deep  into  Dot's  heart,  and  became  the  motto  of 
her  life. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

A  PLACE  OF  REFUGE. 

TOOT'S  brief  disappointment  was  soon  lost  in 
*  grateful  wonder.  Mr.  Saville  wrapped  her 
in  a  warm  plaid,  and  carried  her — she  was  too 
dizzy  and  weak  to  walk — down  the  stairs  she  had 
so  often  trod  with  tired,  fearful  feet,  and  placed 
her  on  the  cushions  of  what,  to  her,  was  a  splendid 
carriage,  though  really  an  ordinary  street  cab, 
and  they  were  whirled  away  out  of  the  dreary 
slums  into  the  broad  familiar  streets,  where  they 
dropped  Phil,  and  into  a  wide  road,  now  open  on 
either  side,  now  flanked  with  handsome  houses. 
It  was  a  bright  moonlight  night,  and  excitement 
had  raised  Dot  above  her  weakness,  so  with 
senses  all  alive,  she  gazed,  and  wondered  what 
was  coming  next. 

For  what  seemed  a  very  long  time  they  rolled 


1 86  Dot. 

on  and  on ;  then  came  the  street  of  a  village, 
and  Mr.  Saville,  closing  the  note-book  in  which  he 
had  been  absorbed,  said,  "  Here  we  are  at  home, 
Dot,"  as  the  cab  bowled  round  a  corner  and  drew 
up  before  a  row  of  large,  substantial  houses, 
standing  high  above  the  road,  with  gardens  and 
shady  trees  in  front. 

Dot  had  often  been  at  the  door  of  such,  and 
peeped  furtively  in,  and  wondered  what  it  must 
feel  like  to  live  in  such  nice  places,  and  now  she 
was  actually  going  in  ! 

She  could  hardly  believe  it,  however,  till  the 
door  v/as  opened  by  a  bright-faced,  neatly-dressed 
servant-maid,  who,  the  moment  she  saw  it  was 
Mr.  Saville,  and  how  accompanied,  flung  it  wide 
with  a  beaming  smile,  and  stood  aside  for  them  to 
enter ;  and  they  passed  into  a  hall,  not  so  very 
large  in  reality,  but  which,  with  its  lamp  and 
broad  staircase,  high  white  ceiling,  and  tinted 
text-hung  walls,  seemed  splendid  in  size  and 
beauty  to  slum-bred  Dot.* 

*  Lest  the  reader  should  be  misled  by  Dot's  impres- 
sions  of  the    Home   for    Little   Girls,   George   Street, 


A  Place  of  Refuge.  1S7 

They  stood  tb.ci'e  a  moment  or  two,  wliilc  the 
maid,  hardly  waiting  for  Mr.  Savillc's  rcfiiiest,  ran 
up  the  stairs  to  find  the  "  nnuhcr."  A  straii^c 
fechng  came  over  Dot  as  she  looked  rouml,  a 
feehng  as  if  this  was  the  home  "up  3'on  "  aft^  r 
all,  and  that  it  would  be  Bess  tliat  would  con:e 
down  those  beautiful  stairs,  and  that  Jesus  Him- 
self would  be  somewhere,  perliaps  in  the  grand 
room  yonder,  with  the  half-op^n  door.  And 
though  it  was  a  face  and  figure  very  dilT^erent 
from  that  of  the  poor  street-hawker  that  quickly 
presented  itself  there,  something  of  t!ie  feeling 
remained  with  her  all  through  that  night's  new 
and  delightful  experiences. 

"Well,  mother,  I've  brought  you  another  child, 
you  see,"  Mr.  Saville  called  out,  as  the  figure  at 
■wliich  Dot  gazed  so  earnestl}^  came  su'iftly  to- 
Titrds  them.    It  was  not  Bess's.     Was  it  then  her 

Cheetham  Hill, — u'hich  is  l^ore  -ntenrlech^the  author 
begs  to  remind  him  that  thev  are  those  of  a  cliild, 
accustomed  to  the  squalor  and  crowding  of  tlie  slums, 
and  totally  unfamiliar  with  anytliing  else.  The  hojnos 
are  simply  spacious,  well-built  houses,  plainly  and  neatly 
furnished,  but  scrupulously  oX^^-v^  and  bright. 


1 88  Dot, 

own  mother's,  poor  dead  Alice's  ?  she  wondered. 
But  no ;  she  was  young  and  tall,  with  eyes  like 
her  own,  Bess  had  said ;  and  if  the  penny  mirror 
in  which  she  had  once  seen  herself  was  to  be 
trusted,  they  were  not  a  bit  like  the  kindly  blue 
ones  that  were  looking  at  her  with  such  a  wealth 
of  love  and  welcome  in  their  depths. 

"  And  I'm  sure  I'm  very  glad  you  have/ 
was  the  hearty  reply.  "  I've  just  been  giving  a 
good-night  look  at  the  others,  and  wishing  the 
new  bed  was  filled." 

And  she  stooped  down  and  kissed  Dot  so 
tenderly  that  the  tears  sprang  into  her  eyes,  and 
she  longed  to  throw  her  arms  round  and  cling  to 
her  as  she  used  to  do  to  Bess  in  the  dear  old 
days,  when  she  was  a  little  happy  child.  "  Poor 
little  dear,  how  weak  and  wretched  she  looks  I " 
she  said  pitifully. 

"Yes,"  Mi.  Saville  answered,  "she  has  had  a 
hard  time  of  it,  poor  child.  But,"  with  a  bright 
look  at  Dot,  "  it's  all  over  now,  and  I  think  the 
sooner  the  little  new  bed  is  occupied  the  better, 
Mrs.  Benson.     But  let  me  just  give  her  a  pesp 


A  Place  of  Refuge.  189 

at  her  new  home  first."  And  taking  Dot's  hand 
he  led  her  through  the  half-open  door  into  the 
room  it  afTorded  a  peep  into. 

A  grand  room,  indeed,  it  appeared  to  Dot.  It 
was  long  and  lofty, — two  rooms  indeed  thrown 
into  one, — with  the  same  kind  of  tinted  walls  as 
the  hall,  and  a  many-coloured  floor,  that  seemed  to 
Dot  too  pretty  to  tread  on,  and  made  her  think  ot 
the  streets  of  gold.  At  the  large  end  was  a  long 
table,  and  plenty  of  chairs ;  at  the  other  a  snug 
little  parlour  with  a  bright  fire  burning,  a 
pretty  chair  or  two,  a  table  spread  with  books 
and  work,  and  what  Dot  would  have  called  "  a 
h'organ,"  open,  and  with  music  on  it  as  if  just 
used. 

Mr.  Saville  watched  her  face  for  a  moment,  and 
then  said,  "  This  is  where  you  will  eat  your 
meals  and  learn  your  lessons.  Dot ;  there  is  a 
famous  room  to  play  in  downstairs.  And  that 
is  mother's  parlour,  where  you  can  go  and  talk 
to  her  and  sing  hymns.  Do  you  think  you  will 
like  it?" 

"  Eh-h-h      it's     beau~\\-iu\ ! "     gasped     over- 


I90  Dot. 

whelmed  Dot ;  "  I  shouldn't  think  t*  Queen 
could  have  owt  nicer !  " 

Mr.  Saville  smiled,  and  led  her  into  the  hall 
again.     "  Can  you  read,  Dot  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  No,  sir,"  faltered  Dot  apprehensively. 

"Never  mind,  you  will  soon  learn  now.  But 
you  see  those  large  letters  over  there  ! "  He 
pointed  to  a  text  painted  conspicuously  on  the 
wall. 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  Well,  I  will  tell  you  what  they  say.  '  His 
children  shall  have  a  place  of  refuge ' — that  is, 
of  shelter,  safety,  home.  Tliey  are  God's  words, 
Dot,  and  you  see  how  true  they  are.  He  has 
brought  you.  His  poor  little  child,  here,  where 
you  will  never  be  beaten  or  starved  or  lonely 
any  more.  So  don't  forget  to  thank  Him  to-night, 
my  dear,  and  love  and  trust  Him  always,  for  you 
see  how  much  He  cares  for  you." 

And  then  he  said  good-night,  and  went,  and 
the  kind  lady  and  bright-faced  maid  took  Dot 
upstairs,  and  stripped  off  her  wretched  rags,  and 
put  her  in  a  large  hot  bath,  with  plenty  of  pure 


A  Place  of  Refuge.  191 

clear  water,  which  made  Dot  think  of  the  "  water 
of  life"  flowing  "freely,  freely,  freely,"  of  which 
she  had  so  often  sung  in  the  Ragged  School ;  and 
then  they  put  on  her  a  night-dress,  so  purely, 
brightly  white,  that  she  thought  directly  of  the 
robes  of  shining  white  in  the  home  "  up  yon,"  and 
half  believed  herself  there  ;  and  then  they  laid 
her  in  a  little  bed  with  clean  white  sheets  and 
warm  coverings  which  stood  empty  beside  a  row 
of  others  just  like  it,  on  which  sleeping  heads 
were  resting,  in  such  a  clean,  bright,  airy  room  ! 

And  then  as  she  lay,  wondering  at  the  un- 
imaginable niceness  of  everything,  the  mother 
herself  brought  her  some  delicious  hot  bread-and- 
milk ;  sat  by  her  until  she  had  eaten  it,  and  then 
kneeling  down  by  her  bed,  thanked  the  kind 
Heavenly  Father  who  had  brought  His  little  child 
to  a  place  of  refuge,  and  asked  Him  to  bless  her, 
and  teach  her,  and  make  her  grow  up  a  true  and 
faithful  servant  of  Jesus, 

As  she  bent  over  Dot  and  kissed  her  good- 
night, she  saw  a  question  in  her  loving,  shining 
eyes.     "What    is  it,    dear?"    she  asked;  "}ou 


192  Dot. 

know  you  are  at  home  now,  and  must  not  be 
afraid  of  anything.  You  want  to  ask  me  some- 
thing, I  think  ?  " 

"  Oh  yes,  please,"  said  Dot,  raising  herself 
with  earnest  eagerness.  "  Oh,  please  does  tha 
think  as  mother  knows  how  well  I'm  off?" 

"  Where  is  she,  dear  ?  " 

"  In  the  home  up  yon,  wi'  Jesus.  Oh,  and 
in  course  she'll  know,"  she  interrupted  herself, 
her  face  radiant  with  a  sudden  thought,  "  how 
stupid  I  am.  In  course  Jesus  knows,  and  in 
course  He'll  tell  her,  cos  it'll  make  her  so 
happy!" 

And  she  sunk  back  satisfiecL 


CHAPTER   XXIII. 

AT  HOME. 

T  T  was  a  life  new  and  strange,  indeed,  in  all 
■^  its  surroundings  and  conditions,  upon  which 
Dot  now  entered.  But  very  soon  it  and  they 
seemed  quite  natural  to  her.  For  it  was  a  natural, 
God-meant  life — a  life  of  family  love  and  interests 
and  rule.  There  were  the  happy  waking  and  the 
merry  dressing ;  the  gathering  round  the  plain, 
plentiful  breakfast-table,  with  "  mother's "  kind 
face  at  its  head  ;  then  the  cheery  bustle  of  getting 
off  to  school ;  the  happy  scamper  home  to  play 
in  the  playground  behind  the  house  if  fine ;  in  a 
large  light  cellar-room  below  if  wet ;  then  dinner, 
and  off  to  school,  and  home  again  to  tea;  and 
then  the  lesson  hour,  and  the  pleasant  aftertime 
of  books  or  to3rs  or  needle,  and  talk  with  mother ; 
and  then  the  united  evening  hymn  and  prayer, 
and   happy,  safe  good-night.     Then  there   were 

13 


194  Dot. 

holidays  and  half-holidays,  with  play  and  pleasant 
walks,  and  treats  of  sights  and  festivals.  And 
over,  and  uniting  all,  the  firm,  soft  rule  of 
Christian  love. 

Happy  and  well-cared  for,  Dot  soon  shook  off 
the  effects  of  the  terrible  hardships  she  had  en- 
dured, and  when  another  March  came  round,  the 
pretty,  bright-eyed,  dark-haired,  neatly-dressed 
child,  with  the  sunny  temper  and  gentle  ways, 
could  scarcely  have  been  credited  as  a  develop- 
ment of  the  poor  little  weird-faced,  elf-locked, 
hollow-eyed,  emaciated  street  waif,  to  whom  God's 
messenger  had  been  sent  that  bright,  bleak  night 
a  year  ago. 

Nor  was  it  in  body  alone  that  Dot  had  prospered 
and  progressed.  Apt  and  intelligent,  and  spurred 
on  by  her  eager  desire  to  read  for  herself  the 
Word  of  the  kind,  heavenly  Father  and  loving 
Saviour,  to  Whom  she  owed  all  the  blessings  of 
her  blessedly-changed  lot,  she  soon  made  up  for 
lost  time  at  school.  Affectionate  by  nature,  her 
love  and  gratitude  to  her  earthly  rescuers  were 
boundless,   and    found   expression    in    truly  filial 


SoQ?€3  ODY^  else  5 


At  Home  195 

obedience  and  ready  joyful  help  in  all  possible 
ways.  And  the  faith  that  had  cheered  her  little 
desolate  heart  in  the  old  dark  days  grew  and 
flourished,  and  bore  pleasant  fruits  of  truth,  and 
kindness,  and  self-denial,  and  patience,  and  trust- 
worthiness, in .  the  congenial  atmosphere  of  a 
Christian  home.  Was  mother  tired  or  poorly 
or  overpressed  w^ith  work,  Dot  was  always 
aware  of  it,  and  ready  with  thoughtful  care  and 
willing,  and  soon  skilful,  fingers.  Was  a  little 
one  fret.lil  or  sick,  it  was  always  for  Dot  it  cried, 
and  never  in  vain.  Was  a  sister  burdened  with 
lessons  or  work,  Dot  was  always  ready  with 
cheer  and  help ;  and  these  without  question  of 
cost  to  herself.  For  to  be  still,  after  service 
rendered  or  comfort  given,  "  somebody  else's 
blessing  "  was  her  sweet,  unselfish  prayer.  And 
so,  in  growth  in  stature,  grace,  and  wisdom, 
amidst  simple  happy  duties  and  pleasures  and 
interests,  the  days  and  years  of  Dot's  home-life 
went  by.  She  did  not  forget  the  past,  and  her 
memory  of  it  served  as  a  dark  background  on 
which  the  present  stood  out  fair  and  clear  and 


196  Dot, 

praise-inspiring.  Two  links  bound  her  to  it, — 
her  grateful,  loving  remembrance  of  the  mother 
of  her  orphaned  childhood,  and  intercourse  with 
Phil  Day,  who  had  played  so  important  a  part 
in  her  rescue.  He  continued  to  do  well,  and 
Dot  and  he  met  pretty  often,  and,  as  may  be 
supposed,  liked  talking  over  the  old  times  together, 
and,  somehow,  got  to  feel  as  if  they  belonged  to 
each  other. 

Dot  had,  of  course,  her  joys  and  her  sorrows, 
her  conflicts  and  her  victories,  her  falls  and  her 
difficulties,  as  every  one,  especially  every  child  of 
the  Kingdom,  must  have  in  a  life  which  is  only 
God's  school-time,  whatever  may  be  its  conditions, 
and  however  long  it  may  last.  But  only  one  in- 
cident need  be  recorded  here. 

It  happened  about  a  year  and  a  half  after  Dot's 
home-coming.  She  had  soon  found  out  that  she 
had  a  taste  for  drawing,  which  became  her 
favourite  amusement.  A  kind  friend  had  given 
the  children  a  beautiful  box  of  colours,  as  joint 
possession,  with  plenty  of  paper  and  pencils,  so 
Dot  had  every  facility  for  cultivating  her  taste. 


At  Home.  197 

One  half-holiday  she  was  attempting  a  long- 
contemplated  task, — that  of  copying  the  card  that 
Bess  had  taken  from  her  own  mother's  dead  hand, 
and  which  had  borne  to  her  the  first  sweet  sounds 
of  her  Saviour's  voice.  Kept  in  her  bosom  from 
the  time  that  Bess  had  given  it  to  her,  till  the 
possession  of  a  box  of  her  own  gave  her  a  better 
keeping-place,  it  was,  despite  zealous  care  and 
wrappings,  somewhat  begrimed  and  bent,  but 
perfectly  legible. 

She  was  absorbed  in  the  delightful  difficulty  of 
her  self-imposed  task,  when  the  mother  entered 
the  room  in  which  Dot  sat  alone,  accompanied 
by  a  delicate,  sad-looking  lady — a  stranger,  who 
had  evidently  come  to  see  the  Homes.  Dot  was 
accustomed  to  this,  and,  after  rising  to  salute  the 
visitor,  went  on  with  her  drawing.  But  she  could 
not  help  hearing  what  was  said. 

The  lady  was  delighted  with  all  she  saw. 
"  Only  it  makes  me  feel  more  than  ever  what 
a  cumberer  of  the  ground  I  am,"  she  said,  in  a 
sad,  despondent  voice.  "  I  have  neither  health 
nor  wealth,  but  their  opposites.     /  can  do  nothing 


198  Dot. 

to  help  any  one.     There  will  not  be  one  star  in 
my  crown." 

The  sadness  of  her  voice  and  words  touched 
Dot,  as  any  one's  trouble  was  sure  to  do.  She 
looked  up  with  earnest  eyes,  longing  to  comfort 
her  with  the  thought  that  rose  in  her  mind  : 
"  Jesus  is  satisfied  when  we  do  what  we  can." 
But,  of  course,  she  could  not  presume  to  speak 
when  not  spoken  to,  and  went  on  with  her  drawing. 
It  did  not  signify.  God  Himself  was  going  to 
give  comfort  to  His  sad  one. 

She  came  and  looked  over  Dot's  shoulder. 
"  How  nicely  you  are  doing  that,  my  dear,"  she 
said  kindly.  "  May  I  look  at  it  ?  I  am  very 
fond  of  drawing." 

Dot  flushed  with  pleasure,  and  pushed  her 
board,  with  pattern  and  copy,  towards  her.  To 
her  surprise,  the  expression  of  kindly  interest  on 
the  pale,  sad  face  changed  suddenly  to  one  of 
startled  wonder,  and  it  was  the  pattern,  not  the 
copy,  that  'was  taken  up  and  scutinized.  Then, 
"  Wherever  did  you  get  this  ? "  was  asked, 
smilingly  and  curiously. 


At  Home.  199 

"  Mother  took  it  out  of  my  own  mother's  hand 
after  she  was  dead,"  answered  Dot. 

"  Indeed  ! "  and  the  lady  looked  at  Mrs.  Benson 
for  explanation. 

"  Dot  does  not  refer  to  me,"  she  said,  preferring 
that  Dot  should  tell  her  own  story. 

"  No,  ma'am,"  said  Dot ;  "  I  mean  my  mother 
that  was  before  I  came  here.  She  is  dead,  too," 
she  added,  with  starting  tears. 

"  And  was  it  she  that  had  the  card  ?  " 

*'  No,  ma'am — at  least  she  kept  it  for  me ;  but 
it  was  my  own  mother's,  really." 

"  Tell  the  lady  all  you  can  about  it,"  said  Mrs. 
Benson;  for  the  visitor  still  looked  perplexed 
and  eager. 

So  Dot  went  on : — "  My  own  mother  died  when 
I  was  quite  a  baby,  ma'am.  She  was  very  poor 
— had  worked  herself  to  death,  mother  said,  to 
keep  me  and  herself  out  of  the  workhouse.  At 
last  she  got  too  ill  to  sew  any  more,  and  the 
lodging-keeper  would  have  turned  us  into  the 
streets ;  but  mother — I  mean  Bess  Branker — took 
us   into   her  own   room   and   gave   us   tea    and 


200  Dot. 

promised  us  shelter  till  my  mother  could  find  her 
friends,  and  made  her  lie  down  on  her  own  bed 
to  rest  a  bit,  never  thinking  she  was  near  death. 
But  when  she  came  in  for  the  night,  she  found 
her  dead,  ma'am,  on  her  knees,  with  her  arm 
round  me,  and  that  card  in  her  hand.  And 
mother  always  said  it  was  as  if  an  angel  from 
heaven  had  brought  it  to  comfort  her,  there  was 
such  a  beautiful  look  of  peace  and  rest  on  her 
poor  face,  which  had  been  so  sad  and  troubled 
before.  And  mother, — I  mean  Bess  Branker, 
ma'am, — who  took  me  instead  of  her  own  little 
baby  that  had  been  killed,  took  care  of  it  for 
me,  and  gave  it  me  when  Sam — that's  her 
husband,  a  bad  and  cruel  man — found  her  out 
and  came  back  to  her.  I  couldn't  read,  nor 
mother ;  but  I  got  old  Simon  Todd  to  read  it 
for  me,  and  they  were  the  first  words  of  Jesus 
I  ever  heard,  ma'am ;  and,  oh !  I  can't  tell  you 
how  it  helped  and  comforted  me  to  think  there 
was  somebody  that  had  said  them,  even  before  I 
knew  anything  about  Him." 

The  lady  was  weeping  now,  and  it  was  plain 


At  Home.  201 

her  tears  came  from  a  deeper  fount  than  sympathy 
with  Dot's  tale  of  past  sorrows. 

"/painted  that  card,"  she  said  at  last,  "long 
years  ago,  wiien  I  was  sick  and  sad.  A  friend, 
whose  active  work  I  had  envied,  had  suggested  I 
could  do  this  at  least  for  Jesus,  and  I  was  happy 
in  the  work.  But  of  all  I  did  I  saw  no  fruit ; 
some  were  lost,  and  all  seemed  little  prized ;  and 
when  I  heard  that  this  one,  on  which  I  had  spent 
special  pains,  had  been  given  away  by  a  crippled 
woman,  in  whom  my  friend  was  greatly  interested, 
to  a  strange  woman  in  the  street,  I  lost  heart,  and 
did  no  more." 

"  Perhaps  that  woman  was  my  poor  mother," 
said  Dot.  "  She  had  been  out  trying  to  get  W'ork 
the  very  day  she  died.  Perhaps  she  will  be  a 
star  in  your  crown,  ma'am,"  she  added  softly  and 
timidly. 

"Perhaps  so,  dear  child,"  answered  the  lady, 
with  much  emotion.  "At  any  rate  my  feeble 
faithlessness  has  been  rebuked,  and  I  see  that, 
even  to  me,  my  Lord  has  given  and  sealed  a  talent 
and  a  work.     I  cannot  ask  you  for  that  card,  Dot,' 


202  Dot 

she  continued,  after  a  time ;  "  but  you  will  let  me 
have  your  copy  when  it  is  finished,  and  I  will 
place  it  on  my  mantel-shelf,  that  I  may  always 
remember  what  its  story  has  taught  me  ? " 

"Oh,  yes,  indeed  1"  answered  Dot  joyfully; 
"  until  I  can  do  a  better  one  at  least.  And  I  will 
do  it  as  well  as  I  can,  and  spend  all  my  playtime 
on  it  to  get  it  done  soon." 

With  thanks  and  a  kiss  the  sad,  despondent 
"cumberer  of  the  ground"  went  her  way  with 
brightened  face  and  lightened  heart,  henceforth  to 
do  for  Jesus  "  what  she  could,"  in  happy  faith  and 
meek  content.  And  many  a  sad  heart  is  com- 
forted, and  many  a  hard  pillow  is  made  easy,  by 
the  tastefully-executed  "  messages  of  Jesus  "  sent 
out  to  them  by  those  weak  and  once  listless 
fingers. 


CHAPTER    XXIV. 

OUT  INTO    THE    WORLD. 

TV  /TORE  than  three  calm,  pleasant  years  went 
"*■  '^  -*"  by.  Dot  was  now  a  slim,  sweet-faced  maiden 
of  fifteen — perhaps  rather  more ;  she  did  not  know 
her  real  birthday,  so  kept  as  such  the  day  of  her 
coming  to  the  Home.  Very  helpful  to  "  mother  " 
she  had  become,  with  her  quick  skilful  fingers,  and 
active  love-service,  and  pleasant  tact  with  the  little 
ones.  Dot  coveted  no  other  work  or  sphere ;  but 
when  aNlady  visitor,  attracted  by  her  winning  face, 
and  helpful  ways,  and  pleasant,  and  now  pure- 
toned  speech,  still  more  by  the  tenderness  and  tact 
with  which  she  chanced  to  see  her  manage  a  sick  and 
wilful  child,  whom  no  one  else  could  rule,  pressed 
upon  her  guardians  the  offer  of  a  situation  in  her 
own  family,  as  schoolroom-maid  and  attendant 
of  her  youngest  child, — a  poor  little  crippled  'u- 


204  Dot, 

valid, — it  was  thought  best,  for  her  own  sake,  to 
accept  it  for  her. 

So  Dot  went  out  from  the  dear  "place  of 
refuge,"  which  was  still  to  be  "  home "  to  her,  to 
face  the  trials  and  temptations  of  the  world.  But 
not  alone.  He  who  had  overcome  was  with  her 
— her  Saviour,  her  shelter,  and  her  strength  ;  and 
so  she  went  safely  and  happily  on  her  way. 

Her  new  home  was  at  Wellwood  Grange,  a 
pleasant  house  in  the  very  heart  of  the  fair  lake 
country.  Dot  quickly  gained  country  bloom  and 
woman's  stature  in  the  pure,  strong  air ;  and 
though  there  were  some  briers  in  her  path,  some 
battles  to  fight  and  t/ars  to  shed,  the  two  years 
she  spent  there  were  happy  ones.  Her  poor  little 
charge — suffering,  spoiled,  wayward  Annabel 
Lynde — soon  became  very  dear  to  her,  and  Dot 
had  the  unspeakable  joy  of  seeing  her,  moved  by 
the  witness  she  bore  of  the  way  Jesus  had  helped 
and  comforted  her  in  the  days  when  she,  too, 
had  been  a  weary  little  sufferer, — days  of  which 
Annabel  was  never  weary  of  hearing, — cast  herself, 
with  all  a  child's  unquestioning  trust,  upon  Jesus, 


Out  into  the   World.  205 

and  lead  a  new  and  touching  life  of  trust  and 
patience. 

But  we  must  pass,  with  this  brief  notice  only, 
over  this  part  of  Dot's  story.  At  the  end  of  the 
two  years  little  Annabel  died,  peacefully  and 
happily,  after  long  and  sad  suffering,  through 
which  Dot  was  her  constant  and  never-wearying 
nurse.  Then  a  cousin  of  Mrs.  Lynde's,  who 
had  taken  a  great  fancy  to  Dot  during  a  visit 
to  Wellwood  in  the  preceding  spring,  wrote  and 
begged  that  her  services  might  be  transferred 
to  her. 

Dot  had  no  fancy  for  the  change.  She  loved 
her  kind  mistress,  between  whom  and  herself 
mutual  love  and  care  of  little  Annabel  had 
naturally  created  a  strong  bond,  and  her  young 
ladies,  and  pleasant  Wellwood,  and  the  pykes,  and 
crags,  and  fells,  and  spreading  lakes,  and  roaring 
falls  that  lay  all  around  it.  And  Mrs.  Wynter- 
dyke  was  no  attractive  prospective  mistress. 
She  was  an  invalid,  capricious  and  peevish  and 
hard  to  please.  But  she  was  given  little  choice  in 
the  matter,  and  feeling  that  the  pressure  put  upon 


2o6  Dot. 

her  was  that  of  her  heavenly  Father's  guiding 
hand,  she  left  pleasant  Wellwood,  praying  that 
it  Avas  to  be  "somebody  else's  blessing,"  and 
cheered  with  the  promise  that  when  Mrs. 
Wynterdyke  should  be  better — so  it  was  phrased, 
every  one  knowing  she  could  never  be  better  in 
this  world — she  should  return  to  her  old  place  and 
duties. 

Wynterdyke  was  a  stately  mansion,  standing  in 
a  wide-spreading,  well-wooded  park,  in  a  pleasant 
upland  county,  and  furnished  with  a  splendour 
of  which  Dot  had  had  no  conception.  All  that 
wealth  could  procure  was  at  the  disposal  of  its 
mistress.  Yet  she,  still  in  the  prime  of  her  days, 
was  dying,  after  long  years  of  pining  sickness, 
a  broken-hearted,  bitter-spirited,  disappointed 
woman. 

A  trying  mistress  she  had  been  to  serve  at  all 
times,  wearing  out  her  kindest  and  best-disposed 
servants  by  her  unceasing  complaints  and  ca 
prices  and  exactions,  and  total  disregard  of  their 
kindred  flesh  and  blood,  specially  so  now  that  her 
long  nervous  invalidism  had  developed  into  active 


Out  into  the  World.  207 

and  painful  and,  as  all  but  herself  knew,  fatal 
disease. 

Dot  was  sorely  tried  in  mind  and  body  at  first. 
For  though  it  seemed  as  if  she  never  gave  satis- 
faction, that  her  very  patience  and  gentleness  were 
causes  of  irritation  and  offence,  the  poor  sufferer 
had  taken  a  real  liking  to  her,  and  would  hardly 
ever  dispense  with  her  personal  attendance.  But 
when — from  the  querulous  complaints,  freely 
poured  out  at  all  times  and  to  all  hearers,  but  with 
special  fulness  to  the  sympathetic  young  girl  who 
listened  so  patiently,  with  such  grieved  and  tender 
eyes — she  understood  the  story  of  her  life,  the 
great  pity  which  sprang  up  in  her  heart  combined 
with  the  Divine  love  within  her  to  make  it  com- 
parative easy  to  endure. 

It  was  no  wonder  Dot's  fresh  young  heart  was 
touched.  It  was,  indeed,  a  tale  of  sorrow  she 
pieced  together  bit  by  bit  Mrs,  Wynterdyke,  the 
only  and  indulged  child  of  a  plebeian  millionaire, 
had  been  married  by  the  heir  of  Wynterdyke 
simply  to  retrieve  the  fallen  fortunes  of  his  house. 
Unattractive  in  person,  and  destitute  of  tact  and 


2o8  Dot. 

patience,  she  had  lost,  rather  than  gained,  in  her 
husband's  affections  after  marriage,  and  the  cold- 
ness with  which  he  from  the  first  treated  her 
gradually  deepened  into  neglect  and  dislike.  Her 
only  child — a  boy — was  drowned  at  four  years 
old.  She  never  recovered  the  shock,  but  sank 
into  a  condition  of  nervous,  fanciful  ill-health,  and 
lived  a  self-absorbed,  lonely  life,  alienating  her 
friends  by  her  caprices,  her  acquaintances  by  her 
complaints,  and  her  dependents  by  her  exactions  ; 
her  husband  the  while  pursuing  his  own  way, 
regardless  alike  of  her  claims  and  her  love. 

For  she  did  love  him — the  poor  unloved,  un- 
lovable wife.  In  spite  of  her  bitter  speeches  and 
querulous  complaints,  it  was  plainly  to  be  seen 
that  her  heart  had  been,  and,  in  spite  of  years  of 
coldness  and  neglect,  still  was,  with  him.  He  was 
away  then  on  a  yachting  expedition,  undertaken 
in  spite  of  her  pleadings  and  declarations  that  she 
would  be  in  her  grave  ere  his  return.  As  such  a 
declaration  had  been  for  years  the  usual  accom- 
paniment of  their  partings,  he  must  be  forgiven 
for  not  giving  it  the  heed  it  now  deserved.     But 


Out  into  the    ]Vorld.  209 

Dot  did  not  know  tliis,  and  as  the  end  drew  mani- 
festly nearer,  and  the  p'^or  suiTerer's  longings  for 
his  return  grew  more  pitifully  keen,  her  tender 
young  heart  grew  very  sore  against  him. 

Mow  she  longed  to  lead  the  poor  dying  sufferer 
to  Jesus,  to  lift  her  thoughts,  chained  to  herself 
and  earth,  to  the  eternal  world  towards  which  she 
was  hastening !  But  her  faitii  and  patience  were 
sorely  tried.  The  habitude  of  years  was  painfully 
strong,  and  though  at  times  the  poor  lady  would 
listen  while  she  spoke  or  read  of  Jesus,  and  the 
home  of  light  and  love  He  had  gone  to  prepare, 
and  sometimes  seemed  interested  and  "  almost 
persuaded,"  she  would  quickly  relapse  into  queru- 
lous occupation  with  the  troubles  and  sufferings 
of  the  present,  or  the  sorrows  and  wrongs  of  the 
past. 

It  was  a  lonely  and  troubled  life  that  Dot  lived 
at  splendid  Wynterdyke.  Parker,  the  lady's 
maid,  hated  her  as  an  interloper,  and  thwarted 
and  oppressed  her  in  every  possible  manner;  and 
though  her  gentle  and  kindly  ways  made  her  a 
favourite  with  the  rest  of  the  household,  she  felt 

14 


2IO  Dot. 

utterly  out  of  place  amidst  the  riot  and  extrava- 
gance and  folly  of  the  servants'  hall. 

She  was  rarely  permitted  to  be  out  of  her  lady's 
call  by  day,  and  the  only,  change  she  enjoyed  all 
through  that  dreary  winter  was  a  very  occasional 
attendance  at  the  old  grey  church  upon  the  hill, 
and  one  or  two  visits  to  a  farm  a  few  miles  off, 
to  which  a  violent  storm  had  once  driven  Mrs. 
Wynterdyke.  She  had  stayed  the  night,  and  en- 
joyed with  the  zest  of  novelty  the  simple  dainties 
spread  before  her.  Something  brought  the  occur- 
rence to  her  mind,  and  fancies  for  this  or  that  of 
Mrs.  Dale's  own  making  were  the  result.  Some 
mistake  having  been  made  in  her  first  message, 
she  would  afterwards  trust  none  but  Dot  on  these 
occasions. 

So  Dot  got  the  pleasure  of  a  long  breezy  walk 
or  drive,  in  itself  delightful  to  a  girl  pent  in  the 
unnatural  atmosphere  of  a  luxurious  sick-room, 
and  the  still  greater  one  of  the  kindly  hospitality 
of  the  farmer  and  his  wife.  They  were  singularly 
kind  to  her,  and  pressed  upon  her  invitations  she 
would  have  been  only  too  glad  to  have  accepted 


Out  into  tlie   World.  2 1 1 

had  it  been  possible  to  her.  Not  for  the  change 
and  pleasure  alone,  for  the  almost  parental  tender- 
ness of  their  manner  to  her,  and  something  of 
sadness  that  blent  with  it,  drew  out  her  heart's 
affections,  in  a  manner  that  surprised  herself, 
towards  old  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Dale. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

A  MEETING  AND  A   PARTING. 

*"  I  "*IIE  winter  wore  away;  the  promise  of  spring 
awoke  in  swelling  buds  and  balmy  breezes 
and  joyous  song,  but  Dot  was  a  closer  prisoner 
than  ever  in  her  lady's  sick-room. 

The  end  was  coming  very  near  then.  Was 
there  hope  in  it  ?  Dot  trusted  so,  for  she  knew 
how  ready  and  how  mighty  Jesus  is  to  save ; 
but  in  Mrs.  Wyntcrd3dcc  there  was  little  change, 
except  such  as  increasing  weakness  brought. 

What  had  been  expected  for  weeks  came  when 
none  looked  for  it  at  last.  News  of  the  arrival  of 
Mr.  Wynterdyke's  yacht  at  Southampton  won- 
derfully revived  his  dying  wife.  Nevertheless,  a 
telegram  was  despatched  urging  him  to  come  with 
all  speed.  A  day,  a  night,  and  yet  another  day 
of  feverish    expectation    followed ;    then    came  a 


214  Dot. 

sudden  change,  a  swift,  half-conscious  passage 
through  the  dark  valley,  and  the  end.  To  the 
last  the  poor  lady's  eyes  wandered  between  Dot's 
face  and  the  door,  and  whetlier  the  eager,  listening 
look  she  wore  was  for  the  words  of  saving  love 
and  life  Dot  spoke,  or  for  the  watched-for  sounds 
without — who  might  tell  ?  But  it  was  something 
to  Dot  that  the  wandering  eyes  ever  returned  to 
her  face,  that  the  feeble  fingers,  so  long  as  life 
lasted,  clasped,  or  rather  clung  to,  her  own,  and 
answered  the  life- words  that  she  spoke  with  faint 
yet  eager  pressure. 

That  silent,  mournful  death-bed  was  a  terrible 
ordeal  for  a  girl  so  young  as  Dot  to  face. 
But  in  strength  not  her  own  she  went  calmly 
through  it,  and  when  it  was  over  sank  peacefully 
to  the  sleep  which  "He  so  giveth  to  His  be- 
loved." 

It  was  nearly  mid-day  when  she  awoke.  Mind 
and  body  had  been  greatly  overtaxed  of  late 
by  her  poor  mistress's  strange  fancy  for  her 
presence.  Yet  was  that  fancy  so  strange  ? 
Nurses  and  maids  brought  nothing  but  earthly 


A  Meeting  and  a  Parting.        215 

comfort  and  human  strength  to  her  service.  Dot 
— girl,  almost  child  as  she  was — brought  the 
peace  and  power  and  hope  of  a  spirit  stayed  on 
God. 

The  consideration  of  the  head  nurse  won  for 
her  her  long  undisturbed  rest.  She  woke,  as  was 
only  natural,  languid  and  depressed,  with  a 
strange  longing  for  the  presence  of  supporting, 
protective,  earthly  love  upon  her,  "  If  I  could 
but  go  to  the  Hill  Farm  !  "  she  thought ;  "  I  feel 
as  if  a  good  cry  on  kind  Mrs.  Dale's  bosom  would 
be  so  comfortable,  and  do  me  so  much  good  ! 
How  nice  it  must  feel  to  have  some  one  really 
belonging  to  you !  Of  course  there's  mother 
and  Mr.  Saville  and  Phil,  and  ail  the  kind  people 

at  the  Home,  but "  and  she  sank  into  a  long, 

deep  reverie  over  her  scarcely-tasted  breakfast. 

The  great  clock  over  the  stables  chiming  twelve 
roused  her.  "  What  a  baby  I  am  ! "  she  ex- 
claimed, becoming  suddenly  conscious  of  the  tears 
that  were  coursing  down  her  cheeks.  "  Crying 
because  I  have  no  one  to  pet  and  comfort  me, 
when  every  one  is  kind,  and  God  so  very  good  ! 


2i6  Dot. 

For  I  think,  I  do  think,  He  let  me  be  a  little  bit  of 
a  blessing  to  poor  Mrs.  Wynterdyke.  Poor  dear 
lady,"  she  continued,  her  thoughts  turning  into 
the  fresh  channel,  "  I  did  not  think  I  should  feel  it 
so  sad  to  have  nothing  more  to  do  for  her.  It's 
just  the  time  I  used  to  fetch  the  fresh  flowers  for 
her  room.  How  fond  she  was  of  flowers ;  they 
seemed  to  give  her  more  pleasure  than  anything  1 
I'll  go  and  ask  Macpherson  for  some — some  white 
ones,  and  put  them  around  her — it  will  seem  like 
doing  something  for  her  yet." 

Macpherson  had  anticipated  her  request.  One 
of  the  under-gardeners  was  waiting  at  the  usual 
side-door  with  a  quantity  of  exquisitely  delicate 
and  pure  white  blossoms.  Dot  took  them  straight 
to  the  room  of  death,  meeting  no  one  by  the  way. 

She  entered  through  an  outer  room,  the  doors 
of  which,  chiefly  used  by  the  invalid's  attendants, 
had  been  made  to  open  and  close  quite  noiselessly. 
Her  foot  fell,  as  the  heaviest  would  have  done, 
without  sound,  upon  the  rich,  moss-like  carpet. 
The  windows  were  of  course  darkened,  and  the 
door  opened  behind,  and  to  the  right  of  the  bed. 


A  Meeting  and  a  Parting,        217 

Her  entrance  was  therefore  unnoticed  by  a  gentle- 
man who  stood  on  its  left  side,  gazing  with  a 
troubled  rather  than  grief-stricken  face  upon  the 
white,  wasted  countenance  of  the  dead,  and  his 
presence  was  unrecognized  by  her. 

He  saw  her  first — saw  a  slight  young  form,  a 
fair  and  girlish  face,  pale  with  grief  and  natural 
awe,  met  at  last  the  sudden,  startled  gaze  of  large, 
grey,  dark-lashed  eyes.  Nothing  terrible  in  the 
sight,  one  would  think,  even  in  the  nerve-shaking 
presence  of  the  dead.  Yet  what  Dot  saw  was  a 
florid  face  turned  ghastly  pale,  a  stalwart  frame 
convulsed  as  if  with  terror,  white  quivering  hands 
outspread  as  if  to  ward  some  fearful  thing  away  ! 

For  a  moment  she  stood  and  gazed  in  spell- 
bound surprise,  not  terrified,  as  he  so  strangely 
seemed  to  be,  after  the  first  start.  She  knew  at 
once  that  it  was  Mr.  Wynterdyke,  though  she  had 
slept  through,  and  not  been  told  of,  his  arrival. 
"  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,"  she  said,  quickly  re- 
covering herself.  "  I  did  not  know  you  were 
here — or  come  even." 

Mr.  Wynterdyke's  face  relaxed,  and  his  hanvls 


2i8  Dot. 

dropped  as  she  spoke.  "What — who — who  are 
you  ? "  he  stammered,  with  an  oath  of  which  he 
was  probably  unconscious,  but  which  sounded 
fearfully  in  that  solemn  presence. 

"  I  am  Dorothy  Branker,  sir,"  answered  Dot. 
"  One  of  your  poor  lady's  maids.  I  came  to  put 
these  flowers  around  her." 

Naturally  as  she  spoke  she  turned  her  eyes 
upon  the  white,  settled  face,  which  wore,  even 
amidst  the  icy  calm  of  death,  its  life-look  of  weary, 
worn  unrest.  As  she  did  so  a  sudden,  almost 
overpowering  rush  of  pitiful  remembra-nce,  in- 
dignant sympathy,  and  righteous  anger  swept 
through  her.  She  knew  it  was  not  her  place  to 
speak  the  burning  thoughts  that  rose  within  her ; 
she  but  flashed  one  look,  one  speaking  look  from 
the  dead  to  the  living,  and,  bursting  into  a  passion 
of  tears,  sped  from  the  room. 

She  little  knew,  though  she  marked  him  cower 
before  it,  the  double  sting  that  look  of  righteous, 
keen  reproach  had  in  those  clear,  grey,  dark- 
lashed  eyes  of  hers  for  Mr.  Wynterdyke. 

"  Good  heaven ! "  he  gasped,  with  white  and 


A  Mccfi:-^  a:ul  a  Parting.         219 

quivering  lips,  when  she  was  gone.  "Wiiat  a 
likeness  !  Just  so  i^he  looked  wb.en — tush,  what 
a  fool  I  am  1  "  For  he  was  faint  and  giddy,  and 
fureed  to  lean  against  tlie  bed-post  for  support, 
and  the  hand  with  which  he  wiped  the  cold  drops 
from  his  brow  trembled  like  a  leaf. 

But  he  was  a  strong  and  strong-willed  man, 
and  soon  recovered  himself.  "A  chance  likeness, 
doubtless,  though  a  strong  one,"  he  muttered, 
a^'ter  a  few  moments.  "  And  coming  now  and 
here  seemed  greater  than  it  is.  But  I  must  find 
out  who  the  girl  is  bcfoie  I  can  rest." 

Some  hours  passed  before  he  had  leisure  to  do 
so.  Then  he  sent  for  Mrs.  Gelding,  the  house- 
keeper, and  broke  upon  the  lei-.gth}'  speecli  she 
thought  befitting  tlie  occasion  by  saying  abruptly, 
"  I  saw  a  girl,  Dorotliy— something — slie  said  her 
name  was — in — in  the  room  just  now.  Who  is 
she,  and  where  did  she  come  from  ?  " 

"  She  came  from  We'hvood  Grange,  sir,  where 
she  was  school-room  maid  and  ni;rse  to  poor  little 
Miss  Annabel.  Mrs.  Wynterd^'ke  saw  her  there, 
and    took  such  a  fancy   to  her  that   when   Miss 


2  20  Dot, 

Annabel  died  she  sent  for  her  here.  And  1  must 
say  I  don't  wonder,  for  she  is  a  good  girl,  sir,  as 
good  as  she  is  pretty,  with  a  wise  little  head 
on  her  young  shoulders,  and  has  been  a  great 
comfort  to  your  poor  lady,  and " 

"  But  who  is  she — where  is  her  home  ?  "  inter- 
rupted Mr.  Wynterdyke  impatiently. 

"She  has  none,  sir,  properly  speaking.  She 
is  an  orphan,  and  came  to  Wellwood  from  some 
Institution  in  Manchester. 

Mr.  Wynterdyke  paced  twice  up  and  down  the 
room  in  very  apparent  agitation.  "  Send  her  to 
me,"  he  said  then,  "  I  want  to  ask  her  a  few  ques- 
tions. She  was  with  Mrs.  Wynterdyke  at  the 
last,  I  believe,"  he  added,  with  an  effort,  for  Mrs. 
Golding's  eyes  were  round  with  wonder  and 
curiosity. 

"  Oh  yes,  sir,"  she  answered,  mollified,  and  as 
she  thought,  enlightened,  by  this  late  show  of 
interest  in  his  neglected  wife.  "And  was  the 
greatest  comfort  to  her,  holding  her  hand  and 
talking  as  good  as  any  parson.  She  is  a  wonder- 
ful one  at  the  Bible,  sir." 


A  Meeting  and  a  Parting        221 

"  Well,  well,  send  her  to  me,"  he  interrupted 
impatiently,  again  beginning  to  pace  the  room. 

Mrs.  Golding  executed  her  commission,  much 
to  Parker's  indignation,  who  felt  herself  and  her 
long  service  slighted,  and  to  Dot's  dismay.  But 
she  obeyed  at  once,  inwardly  asking  that  she 
might  say  nothing  she  ought  not  to  say,  and 
leave  nothing  unsaid  that  she  ought  to  say. 

She  little  knew  how  needed,  how  well-timed, 
was  that  prayer  for  grace  and  wisdom  and  guid- 
ance! 

What  passed  in  that  interview  none  ever  fully 
knew.  Dot  came  forth  from  it  with  deeply- 
flushed  cheeks,  clear-shining,  steadfast  eyes,  and 
quiet  manner  which  seemed  the  calm  after  some 
great  spiritual  storm.  And  the  eyes  from  which 
closed  doors  and  shuttered  windows  hide  not, 
saw  left  behind,  with  head  bowed  low  and  hidden 
face,  a  man  whose  sin  had  found  him  out  at 
last. 


H 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

BLESSED  AND  A  BLESSING, 

ALF-AN-HOUR   later   Dot   was    on    her 


way  to  the  Hill  Farm.  "  Mr.  Wynterdyke 
knew — Mr.  Wynterdyke  had  given  her  leave," 
she  said,  in  reply  to  indignant  Parker  and  curious 
Mrs.  Golding.  "  Her  service  had  ended  with  her 
lady's  life,  he  had  said,  and  she  was  free  to  go 
just  when  and  where  she  would.  And  that  was 
now,  and  to  the  Hill  Farm,  as  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Dale 
had  asked  her.  Come  back  ?  No ;  she  should 
not  come  back.  Wages  ?  She  did  not  want — 
could  not  take  them."  So,  with  glowing  cheeks 
and  reluctant  speech  she  spoke,  and  went  before 
any  save  those  two  knew  of  her  going. 

Naturally  that  going  caused  much  comment  and 
speculation  in  the  servants'  hall  that  night ;  and 
slumbering  memories  were  roused,  and  gossiping 


224  1^0^' 

tongues  wagged  freely,  and  conclusions — in  most 
cases,  strange  to  say,  secretly  foreseen  long  ago 
— not  far  from  the  truth  arrived  at. 

But  little  recked  Dot  of  gossiping  tongues 
behind,  or  of  fair,  spring  beauty  around,  as  she 
sped  with  winged  feet  through  park  and  village 
and  pleasant  upland  meadows,  where  the  sun 
shone  through  the  young,  wavy  grass,  and  the 
pure,  fragrant  breeze  fell  gratefully  on  her  burn- 
ing cheeks  and  brow.  Her  head  was  in  a  whirl 
of  joy,  amaze,  and  pain,  and  the  one  clear  thought 
that  ran  through  it  all  resolved  itself  into  the 
prayer,  "  Let  me  make  it  all  up  to  them,  Lord,  let 
me  be  their  little  blessing  too." 

She  had  walked  at  utmost  speed  till  she  came 
to  the  stile  leading  to  the  home-meadow,  in  which, 
with  its  pleasant  garden  and  ricks  around,  and 
sheltering  grove  behind,  the  stone  house,  visible 
since  she  left  the  park  gates,  stood  looking  upon 
the  village  and  the  old  grey  church  upon  the 
slopes  below,  and  stately  Wynterdyke  rising 
amidst  its  guardian  trees  beyond.  There  she 
paused  to  breathe  and   think   and  lose  courage. 


Blessed  and  a  Blessing.  225 

"  There  may  be  some  mistake,"  she  thought ;  "  I 
hope  not,  oh,  I  hope  not!  But  I  must  be  careful  for 
their  sakes,  and  try  and  be  sure  before  I  speak." 

So,  endeavouring  to  gather  up  her  forces,  and 
calm  the  beating  of  her  heart,  she  went  slowly  up 
the  path.  At  the  garden  gate  old  Mr.  Dale — a 
tall,  white-headed  man,  to  whose  aspect  regular 
features,  close-set  lips,  keen,  clear  blue  eyes,  and 
the  shadow  of  a  settled  sorrow,  gave  an  impres- 
sion of  sternness  and  hardness  which  intercourse 
removed — met  her  with  subdued  but  kindly  wel- 
come. 

"We  hoped  you  would  come,  my  dear,"  he 
said,  looking  at  her  with  the  sad,  intent  look  Dot 
had  oftened  wondered  at,  but  now  rejoiced  in, 
though  her  heart  beat  wildly  under  it.  "The 
missus  will  be  glad  to  see  you — at  least,  as  glad 
as  she  could  be  at  anything  to-day.  No,  my 
dear;  nothing's  the  matter,"  he  added,  answering 
the  startled  question  of  Dot's  eyes.  "  Nothing 
new,  at  least.  But  it's  twenty  years  to-day  since 
we  lost  our  Alice.  Twenty  years,  and  it  seems 
but  yesterday.     Maybe  you  never  heard  of  her^ 

15 


226  Dot. 

my  dear — it's  an  old  story,  and  folks  have  forgot 
her  and  it,  all  but  the  mother  and  me.  And  it's 
best  so,  best  so,"  he  added  bitterly. 

Dot  could  not  speak ;  she  only  fixed  on  him 
eager,  questioning  eyes.  "  She  was  our  daughter 
our  only  child,  our  darling  and  our  pride,"  he 
went  on,  "and  we — lost  her — twenty  years 
to-day.  But  go  in,  my  dear;  you  are  all  of  a 
tremble  with  the  long  walk  and  all  you've  gone 
through,  and  I'm  wanted  in  the  fold.  You'll  find 
the  missus  a  bit  upset.  She  always  remembers 
the  day,  and  it  brings  it  back  all  frefch-like.  But 
it'll  do  her  good  to  see  you.  Maybe  we've  never 
told  you,  my  dear,  but  you've  such  a  look  and 
way  of  our  lost  one  that  it  almost  seems  like 
having  her  back  when  you  are  here.  So  run  in, 
my  dear ;  run  in,  and  comfort  her  all  you  can. 
I'm  but  a  poor  hand  at  it  myself,  for  my  heart 
is  bitter,  bitter  against  God  and  man  ;  and  the 
words  of  a  bitter  heart  are  an  ill  salve  for  a  sore 
one."  He  strode  off"  as  he  spoke,  leaving  Dot  to 
make  her  way  to  the  house  alone.  She  did  so 
with  clasped  hands  and  a  heart  full  of  prayer. 


Blessed  and  a  Blessing,  227 

The  outer  door  stood  open.  Dot  entered  and 
passed  unnoticed  into  the  large  pleasant  kitchen, 
which,  with  its  generous  fire-place,  and  fresh- 
sanded  floor,  and  milk-white  tables,  and  laden 
rafters,  and  air  of  cheery  plenty,  had  always 
seemed  to  her  the  very  ideal  of  home  and  comfort. 
Mrs.  Dale  was  sitting,  according  to  her  wont  at 
that  hour,  knitting  in  hand,  at  the  window  which 
overlooked  the  farmyard,  where  milking  was  in 
progress.  But  her  ever  busy  fingers  had  dropped 
listless  in  her  lap,  the  kitten  was  playing  its 
maddest  pranks  with  her  ball,  the  tears  were 
coursing  slowly  down  cheeks  round  and  rosy  still, 
in  spite  of  the  heart-break  of  twenty  years,  and 
the  dark  eyes,  usually  so  bright  and  kindly,  were 
fixed  with  a  look  that  saw  far  other  things  than 
Jenny  with  her  pail,  and  Cowslip,  the  ill-condi- 
tioned cow  who  would  never  enter  the  shippon  to 
be  milked. 

She  did  not  hear  light-footed  Dot  till  she  was 
close  beside  her,  and  before  she  could  rise  to 
welcome  her,  Dot  was  kneeling  beside  her,  with 
her  arms  around  her,  and  her  eyes  looking  more 


228  Dot. 

like  her  lost  Alice's  than  ever.  "  Dear  Mrs.  Dale, 
you  are  in  sorrow,  and  God  has  sent  me  to 
comfort  you,"  she  said. 

Mrs.  Dale  caught  her  in  her  arms  and  kissed 
her.  "  It  comforts  me  only  to  look  at  your  sweet 
face,  my  dear,"  she  said.  "  You  are  so  like,  so 
strangely  like,  my  poor  lost  darling." 

"  So  Mr.  Dale  has  just  told  me,"  replied  Dot, 
controlling  herself  with  a  great  effort.  "  I  did 
not  know  until  to-day  that  you  had  had  a 
daughter.  Will  you  tell  me  all  about  her. 
Please  do,  Mrs.  Dale ;  and  then  perhaps  God 
will  let  me  comfort  you.  No  ;  I  am  not  tired  nor 
hungry.  I  will  just  take  off  my  hat  and  sit  here," 
— drawing  up  a  little  wooden  stool  to  Mrs.  Dale's 
side.  "So  please,  Mrs.  Dale,  tell  me  about  your 
dear,  lost  Alice.  It's  so  nice  and  quiet  now,  and 
I  do  so  want  to  hear.  I  can  tell  you  afterwards 
what  I  have  to  tell." 

Had  Mrs.  Dale  been  less  absorbed  and  pre- 
occupied, she  must  have  noticed  Dot's  strange 
impressment  and  ill-concealed  agitation ;  as  it 
was,  she  was  only  too  glad  to  pour  out  the  love 


Blessed  and  a  Blessing.  229 

and  sorrow  with  which  her  heart  was  filled  into 
the  ears  of  so  eager  and  sympathetic  a  hstener, 
though  years  had  passed  since,  except  to  the 
sharer  of  her  loss,  she  had  mentioned  her  lost 
one's  name.  So  Dot,  with  her  heart  in  her  eyes, 
heard  part  of  the  story,  told  with  all  the  tender 
garrulity  of  long-repressed  and  unforgetful  love, 
which  we  have  told  briefly  but  fully,  of  the  done- 
to-death  outcast  of  the  Manchester  slums,  which 
she,  too,  had  heard  before  from  Bess  Branker's 
rough  but  pitiful  lips. 

"And  did  you  never  hear  from  her  again,"  Dot 
asked,  with  quivering  lips,  when,  so  saying,  the 
poor  mother  broke  down  after  the  bitter  relation 
of  the  terrible  day,  twenty  years  gone  by,  when 
Alice's  little  white  bed  had  been  found  unpressed, 
and  a  note  on  it,  telling  why  and  with  whom  she 
had  so  madly  fled.  "  Did  she  not  write  once — 
just  once — only  just  once?"  she  pleaded,  as  if 
for  life. 

"  Yes ;  yes — she  did — she  did,"  answered  the 
poor  mother,  wringing  her  hands.  "  Oh,  my 
dear,  my  dear,  why  did  God  let  it  be  ?     Years, 


230  DoL 

seven  long  years,  went  by,  and  no  word  came  ; 
but  still  we  hoped  and  prayed — oh,  how  we 
prayed — to  God  to  guard  and  bring  us  back  our 
poor  lost,  wandering  lamb  !  And  then,  one  day, 
a  letter,  dark  with  age  and  dust,  was  brought  us. 
They  were  altering  the  village  post-office,  and  it 
had  been  found  stuck  somewhere — I  never  had 
the  heart  to  ask  where,  for  when  we  looked  at  it 
— oh,  God ! — it  was  from  our  Alice,  our  Alice, 
forsaken  and  desolate,  pining  her  life  away  in  a 
great,  strange,  cruel  town,  and  begging  our  for- 
giveness for  her  baby's  sake — her  baby,  dying 
like  herself  of  want  and  misery  1  But,  oh.  Dot,  it 
came  too  late  !  too  late  I  It  was  written  nigh  five 
long  years  before  1 

"  Father  went,  nigh  distracted,  to  Manchester, 
and  sought  and  sought,  but  all  in  vain.  She  had 
sunk  Hke  a  stone  in  the  deep,  black  pool  of  city 
life,  and  not  a  trace  of  her,  living  or  dead,  was  left  I 
But  she  must  have  died  ;  oh.  Dot,  to  think  of  it ! 
she  must  have  died  of  want  and  heart-break, 
thinking  that  we,  whose  hearts  were  breaking  for 
her,  whose  prayers  for  her  went  up  to  God  by 


Blessed  and  a  Blessing.  231 

night  and  day,  had  cast  her  off  unpitled  and 
unfdrgiven.  Oh,  Dot,  my  dear,  my  dear,  why 
did  God  let  it  be  ?  Tell  me,  my  dear,  why  did 
God  let  it  be  ?  " 

"  I  cannot ;  I  cannot,  dear  Mrs.  Dale,"  Dot 
answered,  raising  a  pale  but  radiant  face.  "  But 
I  know  it  was  in  love — in  love  to  you,  in  love  to 
her,  in  love  to — her  little  child." 

"  Oh,  her  little  child,  her  little  child  !  Oh,  my 
dear,  if  we  might  but  have  had  that,  I  could  have 
been  almost  content  to  let  my  Alice  go.  For  she 
was  proud,  my  poor  darling — ay,  and  pure,  for 
all  her  headstrong  folly,  and  no  more  guilty  of 
the  lot  to  which  she  went,  than  a  lily  pulled  by  a 
strong  and  cruel  hand,  and  flung  into  the  mire,  is 
guilty  of  the  stain  that  mars,  the  cruel  feet  that 
tread  it  down.  She  would  never  have  held  her 
fair  head  up  again,  my  broken,  trampled  flower  I 
But,  oh,  the  child,  her  little  child — it  was  a  girl, 
my  dear,  and  named  for  me,  she  said — if  God 
had  spared  us  that ! " 

Then  Dot  could  restrain  herself  no  longer. 
"  Oh,  Mrs.  Dale,  He  has !  He  has ! "  she  cried. 


232  Dot. 

Grandmother,  I  am  that  child,  your  Alice's 
child!" 

Mrs.  Dale  turned  deadly  pale,  and  clasped  her 
hands  upon  her  heart.  "  Child  1  child !  do  you 
know  what  you  are  saying  ?  "  she  gasped.  Then 
catching  sight  of  Mr.  Dale's  tall  form  at  pause  in 
the  doorway,  "John,  John,  come  here;  oh,  come 
here !  She  says  she  is  her  child,  our  Alice's 
child!" 

Mr.  Dale  made  but  three  strides  across  the 
great  kitchen,  took  Dot's  two  hands  in  his, 
searched  her  face  with  piercing,  hope-kindled 
eyes:  "What  makes  you  say  that?"  he  asked, 
in  a  voice  stern  with  emotion.  "  For  God's  sake, 
don't,  unless  you  are  sure." 

"But  I  am  sure,"  said  Dot,  with  a  calmness 
that  surprised  herself.  "  Your  Alice's  letter  was 
dated  from  Embden  Street,  London  Road, 
Manchester  ?  " 

"Yes,  yes!"  both  exclaimed,  and  Mrs.  Dale, 
with  shaking  hand,  drew  the  letter  from  her 
bosom,  and  held  it  up. 

"And  it  was  from  there,  Bess  said,   my  poor 


I 


Blessed  and  a  Blessing.  233 

mother — not  Bess  Branker — did  I  never  tell  you 
she  was  not  my  real  mother? — from  Embden 
Street  my  own  poor  mother  wrote  to  her  parents ; 
there  Mr.  Wynterdyke  traced  your  Alice.  Oh, 
God  has  made  it  clear  as  day,  as  you  will  say 
when  I  have  told  you  all.  I  never  knew  it  till 
to-day,  or  why  I  loved  you  both  so  much.  But 
this  morning  when  I  went  to  put  some  flowers 
around  poor  Mrs.  Wynterdyke,  Mr.  Wynterdyke 
was  there,  and  almost  fainted  at  sight  of  me. 
He  thought  I  was  your  Alice's  ghost,  he  said, 
and  could  not  rest  till  he  had  questioned  me. 
And  then  the  truth  came  out.  He  wanted  to 
atone — to  make  a  lady  of  me.  But  I  came  home 
to  you,  praying  God  to  let  me  make  it  up  to  you, 
to  be  your  comfort  and  your  blessing.  Grand- 
father, Grandmother,  will  you  have  me  ?  " 

Need  the  answer  be  given,  or  the  scene  that 
followed  described  ? 


And  now  we  must  leave  Dot,  blossoming  up, 
as  Mr.  Saville  had   promised,  into  a  good  and 


234  l)ot. 

happy  woman,  blessed  and  a  blessing.  It  has 
already  been  her  sweet  privilege  to  lead  the 
sore  heart,  crushed  into  bewilderment  by  sorrow 
and  pain,  and  the  bitter  heart,  steeled  into  re- 
bellious disbelief  by  wrong  and  mystery,  into  the 
light  that  shines  out  of,  through,  and  upon,  all 
darkness  of  sorrow  and  sin  and  mystery,  in  the 
face  of  Jesus  Christ.  She  has  still,  day  by  day, 
the  joy  of  making  desert  lives  rebloom,  and 
desolate  hearts  rejoice.  In  her  God  has  given 
them,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Dale  meekly  own,  "  more 
than  they  had  before/'  in  their  beautiful,  spoiled, 
wilful  Alice. 

Dot's  cup  is  very  full  of  blessing,  and,  day  by 
day,  brimming  drops  run  over  from  it  into  some 
one  else's  less-full  vessel.  In  her  happy,  healthy 
country-life,  the  dream  of  her  old  slum-days  is 
more  than  realized.  She  does  not  forget  those 
days,  or  the  old  friends,  at  the  Home.  How 
could  she,  while  to  them,  under  God,  she  owes 
that  she  is  not  still,  and  in  a  sadder  sense,  a  waif 
of  the  Manchester  streets  ?  She  is  in  constant 
correspondence  with  them ;  and  many  a  hamper, 


Blessed  and  a  Blessing.  235 

filled  with  farm-produce,  finds  its  way  there  from 
the  Hill  Farm,  and  more  than  one  pale-faced 
rescued  waif  has  bloomed  into  healthy  child-life 
in  a  sojourn  amidst  its  breezy  fields,  and  many 
another  will  do  so  yet,  for  its  inmates  feel  that  all 
they  can  do  to  help  the  Christ-like  work  of  those 
to  whom  they  owe  so  much  is  all  too  little,  and 
this,  they  are  told,  is  a  help  indeed. 

Dot  still  hears  from,  and  often  sees,  Phil  Day, 
now  prospering  in  a  situation  of  trust  on  a  model 
farm,  not  many  hours'  journey,  in  these  days  of 
steam,  from  pleasant  Wynterdyke.  And  the  old 
people,  as  they  note  Dot's  happy  face  over  his 
letters,  or  watch  them  together  on  his  holiday 
visits,  meet  eyes  and  smile,  and  think,  with  full 
content,  that  before  long  their  blessing  will  be 
"  somebody  else's  blessing  "  too. 


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ored bits  of  Eden  of  which  this  world  knows.  A  real  land,  with 
homes,  music,  personal  recognition,  freedom  from  sorrow  and 
from  sin,  the  society  of  the  Lord  himself.  They  show  the  life 
there  to  have  many  of  the  conditions  and  pleasures  that  give  this 


Any  Book  mailed  postpaid  on  ticeipt  of  price. 


PUBLICATIONS  OF  JAMES  H.  EARLE,  BOSTON.    J 

world  its  chief  charm,  with  none  of  the  infirmities,  and  with  many 
added  enjoyable  conditions. 

An  author  widely  known  in  the  Old  World  and  the  New,  says: 
'•  Those  who  doubt  the  recognition  of  friends  in  heaven  shoald 
read  *  BEYOND  '  I  Those  who  do  not  doubt,  but  want  confirmar 
tion  of  their  belief  should  read  '  BEYOND '  1 1  Those  who  mourn 
dear  ones  gone  before,  and  long  for  a  realizing  sense  of  the  joys 
and  occupations  of  the  departed  should  read  '  BEYOND  'II! 
This  book  is  a  poem,  not  in  rhyme  and  metre,  but  in  lofty  sent! 
ment,  glowing  imagery,  and  beauty  of  expression.  It  is  a  gem  in 
clearness,  purity  and  brilliancy.  It  is  a  book  of  fervent  devotion, 
of  holy  love,  and  of  the  comfort  of  the  Holy  Ghost.'* 

"Its  pages  do  for  the  reader  what  the  pen  pictures  of  travelers 
in  the  East  do  for  people  at  home."' — Central  Baptist,  St.  Louis. 

"  The  book  is  excellent,  and  will  help  the  Christian  citizen  on 
his  way  to  his  new  country,"' —  The  Evangelist,  New  York. 

"  Devoutly  and  impressively  written  and  will  afford  rich  subjects 
for  meditations."    Ziotis  Herald,  Boston. 

Better  Life  (The)  and  How  to  Find  It.   By  Rev.  E. 

p.  Hammond.     i6mo.     Cloth.     50  cts. 

For  young  men  and  women  who  have  not  realized  the  peace 
and  joy  there  is  in  believing  in  Jesus. 

"  Young  ministers  who  are  seeking  to  learn  what  manner  of 
presentation  of  Gospel  truth  is  most  likely  to  be  blessed  of  God, 
will  do  well  to  study  this  book." — The  Revival. 

Between  Times.     By  I.  E.  Diekenga,     "The  Ameri- 
can Dickens."  Cloth,  gold  and  black.    i6mo.  75  cts. 

In  this  breezy  volume  of  story,  sketch,  and  poem,  Mr.  Diekenga 
has  satire  for  folly  and  meaness,  humor  for  the  ludicrous,  and 
tender  charity  for  adversity  and  helplessness. 


Any  Book  mailed  postpaid  on  receipt  of  prict. 


8    PUBLICATIONS  OF  JAMES  H.  EARLE,  BOSTON. 

"  We  have  not  seen  among  recent  publications  a  fresher, 
■prightlitr,  or  more  original  book.  There  is  not  a  dull  page  in 
the  book.  The  author  has  come  to  bs  known  as  the  "  American 
Dickens,"  and  is  master  of  verse  as  well  as  prose." —  Western  Re- 
corder, Louisville,  Ky. 

Bible  Teachings  from  Nature.    By  Rev.  J.  Byington 
Smith,  d.  d.     i2mo.     Cloth.    $1.50. 

The  author  has  happily  conceived  the  idea  of  making  the  world 
with  its  charm  and  grandeur,  the  interpreter  of  Revelation,  with 
its  comfort  for  human  souls  and  light  for  human  feet.  Lovers  of 
the  forms  and  graces  in  which  the  earth  bedecks  itself,  and  Bible 
students  will  alike  find  delight  in  these  charming  pages. 

"The  author  writes  like  one  who  loves  the  Bible,  and  who  finds 
in  it  mines  of  wealth  for  the  intellect  as  well  as  the  heart." — Sar- 
atoga Daily  yournal. 

"  In  a  charming  manner  Dr.  Smith  brings  the  beauty  and  won- 
der of  earth  and  sky  to  light  up  the  Word." — Journml  and  Met- 
senger. 

Bible  Studies  and  Life  of  Eev.  George  F.  Pentecost. 

Edited  by  P.  C.  Headley,  under  Mr.  Pentecost's 
supervision.  Extra  large.  12 mo.  Cloth.  With 
Portrait.     $1.50. 

Mr.  Pentecost's  Bible  readings,  are  valuable  to  all  lovers  of 
God's  Word. 

Bringing  in  Sheaves.    By  Rev.  A.  B.  Earle,  d.  d. 

With  Portrait.     12  mo.     Cloth.     $1.25. 

This  work,  crowded  with  sketches,  incidents,  helps  and  lessons, 
from  the  author's  long  experience,  is  invaluable  to  all  who  would 
be  SKCcessful  workers  for  Christ.    It  also  contains  four  of  hia 


Any  Book  mailed  postpaid  on  receipt  of  price* 


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